


Heavy, Lies the Crown

by xMusicallyAd3ptx



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-03
Updated: 2015-07-16
Packaged: 2018-04-07 12:59:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 10
Words: 29,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4264086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xMusicallyAd3ptx/pseuds/xMusicallyAd3ptx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. Jaime escapes the captivity of the Starks and arrives just before the Battle of the Blackwater to find the world upside down and on fire. From then on, everything he knew became a shadow, a distorted fringe. If he were man or monster, conclusion escaped him. But one thing was certain: Nothing would ever be simple again. </p>
<p>A web spun full of redemption, destruction, and surprises. Red Wedding? Never heard of it. Targaryen Invasion, Turncoat Baelish, an Unlikely Alliance, a fifth Lannister Brother, and more. Multiple POVs. Jaime/Sansa. Major characters: Jaime, Sansa, Tyrion, Daenerys, Tywin, Arya, and an OC.</p>
<p>Warnings: Violence and depictions thereof, major character deaths, sexual acts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Lion Roars

Heavy, Lies the Crown

Author's Note: Obligatory Disclaimer: Nope, I don't own any of this. All of it goes to the great mind of GRRM. The only thing that's partially mine is the shitty plot and writing.

Anyways! Hello all, this is an endeavor into a large-scale retelling of GoT/ASOIAF, and there are several huge AU storylines going to be developed. I hope you enjoy it!

Chapter 1-The Lion Roars

oOoOoOo

"He walked out in the gray light and stood and he saw for a brief moment the absolute truth of the world. The cold relentless circling of the intestate earth. Darkness implacable. The blind dogs of the sun in their running. The crushing black vacuum of the universe. And somewhere two hunted animals trembling like ground-foxes in their cover. Borrowed time and borrowed world and borrowed eyes with which to sorrow it."

~Cormac McCarthy

oOoOoOo

Jaime Lannister

The night was bitterly cold, and the Lion of Lannister sat in his Stark cage, leaning against a wooden pole that had served as his only companion for weeks. He had been in Robb Stark's captivity for some time now, and he had since lost track of just how much of his sentence had passed. His head weakly throbbed from where Mother Stark had thwacked him over the head with a stone, angered by his taunts, and other parts of his body similarly bore the bruises and cuts of a prisoner. He wondered about his family for a moment, his thoughts lingering on Cersei, before moving on to Tyrion, then Tywin, then those he had left behind at the Rock. Jaime smiled briefly, the tilt of his lips carrying neither mirth nor happiness, as he remembered his father's words: Lions have no need for sentiment. There was no doubt in his mind, however, that even Twyin would have found it difficult for his mind not to stray to family in such conditions.

Such conditions. Debasement was describing it lightly. Forced to sleep in his own filth and waste, never to leave the tiny kingdom between the bars of his cell. He had been spat on, called things fit for only the most depraved of men (though words bothered him little), beaten, belittled. The Lion at the mercy of the Wolves. The forests beasts had caught themselves a nice little cat, and he was sure they were enjoying making him understand who was on top in the animal realm. He supposed he deserved mistreatment, after all the sins he had committed in his time on earth, but to receive it from the Starks was rather insulting. The gods have a twisted sense of humor. They'd probably get along well with Tyrion, he thought with a smirk.

His reverie was brought to an abrupt halt as he heard the shuffling of quiet feet approaching his lion's box. He grimaced at the thought of more fun with the Starks.

"The Lion is licking his wounds," he called into the darkness with a mocking tone. "Can you come back after the war is over?"

"Not if you want us to come back to your dead body."

Jaime's eyes widened slightly as the owner of the voice unlocked his cage and stepped forward. Cleos Frey. A bannerman of his father's. But how? How could he possibly have gotten past the entire Stark encampment? The thought struck him that perhaps he was part of the Stark encampment. He growled at the man.

"Turned tail and joined the Starks when the going got tough, Frey? I thought Lannister bannerman had more guts than a twelve-and-ten boy."

The wiry man gazed at him, watery eyes appraising the one they called Kingslayer, before chuckling softly. "No, Ser Jaime, quite the opposite; I'm here to free you."

Jaime looked dumbfounded for a moment, a rare expression on his features. "You negotiated with the Starks?" He hoped whoever was calling the shots in King's Landing now had not done something stupid for his benefit.

"Absolutely not," the Frey man answered with a snort, bending down and unshackling him. "Now let's keep the talk to a minimum, Ser Jaime, lest you fancy this operation to be a ruin."

Jaime nodded hesitantly, still suspicious that there was some duplicity hidden beneath the Lannister bannerman's words. His wariness quickly subsided, however, as he was led out of the cage and directly to a horse. Several men, also pledged to Lannister, were gathered there, already horsed themselves. Cleos Frey handed him a sword and a dagger, as well as a hooded garment, and told him to garb himself and draw up the hood. Jaime acquiesced and mounted his horse as silently as a man could emulate a mouse. After a quick look around, Cleos gave the order.

"Ride, men, but stay quiet!"

And Jaime was off, a lion into the darkness.

oOoOoOo

Tyrion Lannister

Tyrion sat in the Tower of the Hand, wine glass in his dimunitive lion's paw, eyes scouring over documents regarding the Tyrells. Lately, the thoughts that led to the expansion of the Lannister name and fame were flowing to him like the wine did in the Capitol: endlessly and in great quantity. He smiled to himself as he ruminated on the most recent egg that had hatched in his brain. If he could orchestrate a marriage between Joffrey and Margaery Tyrell, he'd be putting one of the oldest and most noble houses in the land under his thumb, and subsequently, all of their lands and forces. It would be a grand move; he knew his father would appreciate it. Though he understood his father disliked him for many things, his was aware his cunning was not one of them. And any way to exercise his worthy traits was a good way to keep his father from kicking him out of his position. He started to finalize the paperwork to establish the Tyrell-Lannister union when a knock sounded at the door.

"Come in," he drawled, not looking up from his work.

The visitor entered the room wordlessly, walking over to his desk and seating itself at one of the chairs positioned in front of him. It reached over, took the wine carafe, and began pouring itself a glass before Tyrion looked up and was met with the sight of his sister.

He slowly set down his quill. "To what do I owe the honor of a visit from my illustrious sister?"

She did not respond, instead swirling the wine in her glass and staring down into its violet depths. Tyrion let out an aggravated sigh.

"As much as I truly enjoy your company, I have a lot of work to do, and if you're not goi-,"

"Jaime is free," she stated, cutting him off. She glanced up from the wine and into her little brother's eyes. "And I suppose you had something to do with it."

He figured that was about all the recognition he would get from his dear sister. "Yes, Cersei, he was loosed under my command. You'll have our brother back, and the Kingsguard will have its Commander back. He should be arriving in a few weeks time."

She nodded, before taking a long sip from her glass. If she was excited about the news, she did not reveal it. Tyrion took a moment to look her over. She had developed dark circles under her eyes, no doubt a result of the stress of attempting to compete with him for the power behind the crown that lie atop Joffrey's vicious little head. She looked somewhat gaunt, and he supposed her diet as of late consisted of mostly wine and the foul praise of her supporters. She was still extremely beautiful, there was no doubt about it, but her beauty was taking orders from her actions and it was plain to see, like a mirror smudged by grubby hands. Cersei was not taking kindly to his little victories.

"I should probably thank you," she said, voice as sharp as the dagger that was her desire for power. "But I know this is just some part of one of your ruses. You've always been a little weasel, Tyrion, reaching up for things even ordinary men can't usually grab off the shelf. And now you've added Jaime to the mix. Pity, he was the only one who ever liked you."

Anger burbled up from his belly like rising magma, but he forced himself to remain calm. He would not engage her on this.

"Got anything of value to say, sweet sister? Because it's getting rather late…"

Her jade eyes narrowed, and she stuck a long, elegant finger in his face. "I will say this, and I will say this only once: don't you dare involve our brother in your stupid little plots. You will never get what you want, Tyrion, and Jaime certainly won't help you in your aims to do so."

He laughed, a mocking guffaw that echoed through the chamber like a metal pot falling down a well. "It seems I've already gotten a fair share of what I've wanted. You'll forgive me if I find what you say to be at least, quite droll, and at most, spectacularly untruthful."

Tyrion saw a hate clouding her eyes.

"Remember this conversation, Tyrion," she hissed, rising from her seat and turning to swiftly exit the room.

He watched after her retreating form for a moment, before pouring himself a large second cup of wine.

Oh, my sweet sister.


	2. A Wounded City

Chapter 2-A Wounded City

oOoOoOo

"The individual has always had to struggle to keep from being overwhelmed by the tribe. If you try it, you will be lonely often, and sometimes frightened. But no price is too high to pay for the privilege of owning yourself."

~Friedrich Nietzsche

oOoOoOo

Jaime Lannister

Jaime still had difficulty believing he had escaped the clutches of the Starks. But here he was, atop a white steed, slowly ambling his way back to the Capitol, alongside the Frey man and a few others whose names he did not care to learn. He only cared to get back to King's Landing, back to Cersei. He wondered how much she had thought about him, in the darkness of her bedchambers when the sun left all alone and cold. Loneliness had been the biggest demon of his captivity. He hated it more than the taunts, more than the beatings. The very prospect of never being able to see the few he loved ever again haunted him in the shadows of his pen more than anything he had ever encountered in his three-and-thirty years.

It had been two weeks since his surreptitious departure from the Stark camp, and he had been surviving on bread and the thought of the Red Keep alone. They had encountered scarcely anyone along the road, save for a couple bandit parties they easily dispatched, bedding down usually off the causeway and in the wood. If there were any Stark search parties, none had managed to catch up with them. Never did they stay in one place for too long, as Jaime's homebound thirst drove them ever onward.

One night, Cleos Frey said something to him that made his insides burn like he had met the ends of a thousand white-hot pokers.

"So, Ser Jaime, have you heard the rumors? Of you and your sister?"

He had blanched slightly, but no one seemed to noticed.

"No," he lied, slowly, voice low and dark. "Tell me, what do they say?"

"Well, the Starks have begun a sick and treasonous rumor about your sister and you. They…" he trailed off momentarily, unsure of himself.

"Go on," prodded Jaime.

"Forgive me, Ser Jaime, but they claim you and your sister share a bed. That you have committed incest."

Jaime simply stared into the fire. For a long spell, he said nothing, before he jumped to his feet, drawing his sword and grabbing Cleos Frey by the front of his garb. His tall form dwarfed the thin man, and he leaned in very close, putting his head right beside Frey's. The man trembled like a child in a storm.

"If anyone speaks of this monstrous lie again," he growled, loud enough for all to hear. "I will personally carry your head back to the Capitol and fling it from the highest point of the city. Is that clear?"

It was clear that he had terrified them all. They nodded fervently, and Cleos Frey begged forgiveness. Jaime let him go with a meaningful shove, and the man tumbled to the ground before scurrying away like a frightened rodent.

No one even mentioned Cersei for the remainder of the trip.

They continued on the following morn, Jaime's head tumbling full of formless nuggets labeled treason and Cersei and Starks. His stomach turned to ice when he thought of the seeds of truth of he and Cersei sown by the Starks throughout Westeros. If anyone ever found out Joffrey, Tommen, and Myrcella's legitimate paternity, he would die a horrible and ignominious death. His father would probably spit upon his disembodied head. Jaime Lannister, Kingslayer and Sisterfucker. No one in the Seven Kingdoms would carry more of an ignoble charge than he.

They drew close now, and after a day's ride King's Landing was finally in sight. Night was falling, but Jaime insisted they push on. A few hours in the dark mattered naught to him for the sake of Cersei's arms. He had dreamed of this return for months, the golden beard upon his face a visceral reminder of the time lost between he and those he loved. The woman he loved, above all. Cersei was his everything; if he were the sun upon the earth, she was the moonlight that followed. She had always told him that they shared the same heart and mind and had since the day had entered the world, Jaime holding on to her foot. The fact that he believed her was evident in that he always did everything she ever asked of him. No one understood what they had been through.

"My lord," someone said to his right, voice a whispered tremor. "Look."

Jaime's gaze followed the line of the man's arm and turned his head to the city. He squinted, trying to bring it into better focus, before it hit him. Something was very wrong.

The city was burning.

He dug his heels into his weary horse's sides and in response the beast flew into a wild gallop. Jaime's head swam with a panic, terrible images filling his mind's eye. He and his men raced as fast as their quadrupedal mounts could carry them. As they approached the gate, a gatekeeper called out to them. Even in times of near certain death, men cling to their duty.

"Halt! This city is under lockdown! State your name and business!"

"Open the gates now fool!" Jaime bellowed. "I am Jaime Lannister, Commander of the Kingsguard!"

The man shouted back a quick apology, before ordering his men to open the gates. The giant wooden doors swung open, and in a flash Jaime was galloping frantically through the streets of King's Landing.

I have to find Cersei.

He led his horse to the Red Keep and dismounted, his prisoner's legs buckling a moment as he hit the ground. He whipped out his sword and scanned the area, before entering the building in a stealthy crouch.

I'm coming, Cersei.

oOoOoOo

Sansa Stark

She had said a hundred prayers. She had sat in reverent silence. She had wept and wept and wept.

But the city still burned.

She did not want to die like this, surrounded by enemies, next to a drunk Cersei and run through with the sword of the man who killed her father. The thought was almost too much to bear, and she fell to her knees, her shoulders wracking with sobs like tree branches fighting the wind. Cersei laughed beside her.

"Foolish girl. The city is lost, and we are all going to die!"

Sansa hugged her knees to her chest while Cersei continued on, snipping at her and all the other women in the room. She worked herself quickly into a rage, throwing her wine glass to an untimely demise against the wall across the chamber. In what Sansa hoped was her final act, she spat on her and stormed out, fleeing into the night that spelled death in the name of Stannis Baratheon.

Sansa sat there for a moment, helpless against the torrent of emotions that ripped through her, a little red-haired Stark heap in the midst of a thousand Lannisters. She suddenly wished to be in her room; death there would at least be comfortable, she thought grimly.

As Ser Illyn Payne was distracted looking out the window at the battle raging below, Sansa slipped from the room. A chilly breeze nipped at her pale skin as she walked from the Red Keep back to her chambers, her mind acutely aware of everything as the fear sent her senses into overdrive. She was a hallway away from her sleeping place when a voice slurred behind her.

"What are you doing out here all alone, Lady Stark?"

Sansa was instantly seized with a black terror. Slowly, she turned to meet the voice and found Ser Meryn Trant standing there, his armor awash with blood and swaying slightly. To her own amazement, she managed to find her voice, though it was so small and weak she wondered if he'd even heard it.

"Ser Meryn? What are you doing?"

He took a lumbering step forward, his body wavering like one of the great trees of the North. His mouth broke into a disturbing and toothy smile.

"Why, Lady Sansa, I'm here to protect you," he coaxed, his words running together and jumbling. She wondered if everyone was intoxicated that night, trying to escape into the bottle. "I won't let Stannis hurt an inch of that…wonderful little body of yours."

She gasped, her face breaking into color despite the situation. "Ser Meryn, please, let me go to my room!"

Meryn Trant staggered forward in response, his arms outstretched and groping, but she deftly sidestepped him, and he lurched and fell straight to the ground.

"You little bitch!" he spat, his eyes alight with fury. "You dare refuse a member of the Kingsguard?"

Sansa couldn't get a word out as Meryn was abruptly on his feet, his hand around her throat in a vice-grip. The Kingsguard member pinned her against the wall, his other hand binding her wrists together. She tried to scream, but the fingers around her long, graceful neck were so tight they suffocated any attempt.

"That's right, little wench," he hissed, burying his grizzled face in her neck just below her ear. "No one can hear you. No one will hear you as I take you right here on this stone floor."

Sansa's grip on consciousness began to falter, her vision blurring and refocusing like a bad telescope, her head feeling light and disconnected from her body. The man swung her down, his legs kicking hers out from under her, and straddled her on the floor, his hot, malodorous breath against her neck causing her stomach to threaten to revolt. Momentarily, he let go of her neck, fumbling with the laces on his breeches, and she took what she thought to be her last opportunity to plead for help.

"Please, someone help me!"

No sound came back to her. Meryn laughed, his spittle flying into her face and decorating her cheeks and chin like spots of ice. He swung with his free hand, and her head snapped sharply to the right as his open palm connected with the side of her head. Pain blossomed like a blinding light in her skull. Involuntarily, she began to sob, her choked cries filling the hall.

"Please…someone…help…"

Meryn cackled again, and she looked down and caught sight of what was to defile her. She felt the impulse to retch again. He began to tear at her gown, and she retreated into the depths of her mind, searching for a place far and away. She thought of her mother, and Jon, and even Arya, all together and happy under the roof of Winterfell. She thought of Lady, of her father, of everyone that was powerless to help her. She began to shatter.

"Alright, bitch, are you ready? I certainly can't wait another-,"

Meryn's voice suddenly faded, and she felt a hot spray of liquid across her face and midsection. She sputtered, blinking away the wetness, and looked up.

Ser Meryn Trant stared down at her, eyes stretched open like snowballs, a glistening blade jutting from his chest. The sword suddenly disappeared from view, and Meryn tipped to the side, his lifeless body hitting the stone floor with a dull thud. Her savior knelt down.

And Jaime Lannister's jade eyes found hers.


	3. Betrayal isn't Always Treason

Chapter 3-Betrayal Isn't Always Treason

oOoOoOo

"Yet each man kills the thing he loves  
By each let this be heard  
Some do it with a bitter look  
Some with a flattering word  
The coward does it with a kiss  
The brave man with a sword"

~Oscar Wilde

oOoOoOo

Jaime Lannister

He didn't know why he did it. Inexplicably, the sight of that man sworn to honor on top of her like that, holding her down, one more repulsive act to add to her victim's scroll, had filled him with a rage that relieved him of all his better urges. Driving his sword through the man's back alleviated this confusing condition, and he had felt a deep satisfaction as he watched the fool's corpse fall like an oversaturated plant, his blood forming a crimson lake on the floor. Jaime knew he was no hero; he was no saint. But that scene. Her. It had punched through his internal Lannister armor.

She had looked up at him, Tully blue eyes glistening and full of fear, her gown torn and her arms bruised, and it evoked something in him. Something strange and heavy. It felt like sympathy, only more complex and gripping. He only understood that if anyone else were here trying to hurt her, no matter who they were, he would kill them.

Sentiments were a weakness, according to his father, but it had often been said by the staff of Casterley Rock that his mother Joanna's heart had found its way into Jaime's chest. Perhaps, he thought, it was why he loved Cersei so much. She could command him to fight a dragon, and he'd do it with his bare hands. He felt strongly and passionately, but only a few could elicit such in him. Somehow, Sansa Stark had managed to by simply being in distress.

Presently, he knelt down and caught her gaze. Though she was battered and her eyes were red-ringed from weeping, he couldn't help but notice how beautiful she was. Her pale skin, the cloak of the North, stretched in an endless wave of blemish-free expanse, save for the bruises recently bestowed upon her, that met at the top a cascade of long auburn tresses, which Jaime thought looked very similar to the red of the Lannister sigil. Sapphire stones were affixed to the whites of her expressive eyes, and her lips were full and regal. An aristocratic nose, lightly freckled, sat in the valley between her Tully orbs.

"Are you alright, my lady?" he queried.

Unabashed gratitude flooded her face. "Y-yes, my lord."

"Did he hurt you, beyond what I can see?"

She bit her lip, casting her eyes downward. "No, my lord. He would have, though, had you not arrived."

Jaime smiled at her maiden's display. "Well, thankfully, that's now all in the realm of past possibility."

He followed her gaze to the body of Meryn Trant directly beside them. "My lord, what are you going to do about him?" Her voice was small and scared, and it brought the odd feeling back in force at the bottom of his chest.

"Whatever do you mean?" he replied, tone light. "He tried to desert, and it cost him dearly."

Her eyes widened at the implication of his words, and she opened her mouth to respond, but Jaime silenced her, placing one long finger over her lips. He almost wanted to yank it back as a queer burning erupted at the source of the contact.

"Enough, now, my lady," he ordered gently. "I think its time you got to where you were going. Bolt the door and don't open it for anyone. Not many people you can trust these days." He pat the dead man's arm as he spoke the last part.

She nodded, and he helped her to her shaky feet. The burning sensation increased, but Jaime found it wasn't unpleasant. Rather, it felt like sunshine across his back at the Rock, and it panicked him. He released her and gave her a slightly brusque shove onward, and she obeyed, her lithe, graceful legs carrying her away from him and the trouble that stood at the city gates.

He turned to embark on his own endeavor, when her soft voice called out to him.

"Ser Jaime?"

He looked back at her. "Yes, my lady?"

Her face was serene, sincere. "Thank you."

And with that, she was gone.

Jaime's unfortunate sense of intrigue kept his eyes trained on her as she walked away, and the event that had unfolded just moments ago replayed in his head like a repetitious dance. The sword in his hand dripped still with the freshly drawn blood of Meryn Trant, and the weird sensation still softly prickled up and down his spine. He kicked the slain bastard's body.

Truthfully, he never liked Trant and often longed to strangle him, but the thought suddenly came upon him that he had just broken another oath, and ironically, in the service of the Kingsguard. And, just as suddenly, he laughed as he discovered he didn't care. What was one more oath?

What was the life of a pretty girl?

Jaime moved on from the place of Meryn Trant's doom now, his boots sharply clicking against the stones of the floor as he pushed on through the building. Cersei would be somewhere inside with the other women, hidden away in some room to be disposed of if Baratheon took the city. Lannisters were only captives by force, and they certainly wouldn't be bending the knee in their own city.

He briefly checked each room as he passed, most only turning up empty space and four walls. Eventually, he reached Cersei's bedchambers, and he was about to push open the door when a noise stayed his hand.

A woman's moan.

His insides froze like a northern rain. Slowly, he cracked the door, the sounds inside becoming clearer. The slaps of flesh. The pants of a duo. And moans.

Cersei's moans.

His heart turning to stone like the walls around him, he swallowed the lump that had crawled into his windpipe and looked inside.

The sight that met his eyes broke him. Cersei atop their cousin Lancel, their bodies one.

oOoOoOo

Tyrion Lannister

She turned to look at him, face a shadow, features completely indistinguishable.

"Tyrion..." she whispered, a ghostly hand elevating to touch his face like steam from a boiling pot. "Tyrion, my son..."

The emptiness became a visage of unspeakable horror.

"MY OWN SON, KILLED BY MY OWN SON-,"

Tyrion jolted awake, his head pounding and his face rippling with an even greater pain. He shut his eyes tightly as vertigo took a turn on his body, flipping his awareness up and around and back again. As the dizziness faded into a discombobulated buzz, he reached a small hand up and felt the bandage that hid his marred features, and he grit his teeth as he recalled the particular sensation of Mandon Moore's sword removing a good bit of his nose. Wasn't as if I was very pretty before this, he mused bitterly.

His physical discomfort paled as the next thought struck him. My own sister tried to have me killed.

There could be no other explanation. The Kingsguard took orders from none but Joffrey and his mother, and Moore had always been one of Cersei's most loyal pets. The wicked bitch must have thought the siege a most immaculate opportunity to be rid of her dwarf brother, who had suffered her all these years by his mere existence. Despite himself, he could not help feeling a terrible sense of betrayal. Did blood mean anything anymore?

A knock at the door shook him from his melancholy. Maybe it's Cersei, come to finish me off.

"Come in," the little man called hoarsely.

He forgot his troubles as his brother, dressed in full Kingsguard apparel (much to Tyrion's chagrin), entered the room.

"Jaime!" he acknowledged brightly. "I didn't know you had made it back. Though, I suppose I don't know much of anything, now. How long have I been in this nice little slice of paradise?" He gestured to the dingy and cluttered room around them.

"Give or take a moon, little brother," answered Jaime with a grin. He walked over and took a seat next to Tyrion's bed. "You know, father said it was about time you received a battle wound."

Tyrion gaped at him. "Father is back?"

"I forget the circumstances, little brother. Yes, father is back. He arrived moments before it seemed Stannis Baratheon would lay waste to us all." He sighed, and said in a much lower voice, "Too bad he didn't."

Tyrion could tell something was bothering his brother, who looked tired and haggard, but he didn't broach the subject. "Well, isn't that wonderful. Father is back, Hand of the King, and I'm rotting away in some forgotten part of the city. Everything is as it should be."

Jaime chuckled. "Minus your precious little face. Just how did you get that nasty scrape?"

The little man's eyes darkened, and he looked away. "Why don't you ask our sweet sister?"

"Please do elaborate, little brother."

Tyrion was silent a moment, staring out the small window that adorned the far wall of the stone room, before answering, his voice tinged with emotion. "I was attacked by Mandon Moore, one of your gallant comrades on the Kingsguard. If my squire hadn't run a spear through the back of his head, you'd be speaking with my tomb today. You and I both know who holds the real power of the King's knightly troupe of protectors, and that individual almost got her way."

"Well," said Jaime, tone jagged. "It seems you aren't the only one who's been betrayed by our sister."

"Your turn to explain, dear brother."

Jaime took a deep breath. "I saw her fucking Lancel, our cousin. Right in her bedchamber, as the Usurper raged at our gates."

Tyrion wasn't shocked, as he had been well aware of her and Lancel's state of affairs since he had gotten the young man to squeal some weeks ago, but he did feel a pang of sympathy for his brother. Jaime had always been the only Lannister, beside's their uncle Gerion, who truly cared about him. Who didn't see him as some whoring abomination from the seven hells. Who looked out for him and made him feel welcome to bear the sigil of their House. With a little difficulty, he sat up and rested a hand on his brother's shoulder.

"I'm sorry, Jaime," he said earnestly. "I know what she meant to you. Means to you. But understand that our sweet sister is no saint, no matter how much she cares for you. She is a conniving she-lion who doesn't quite grasp any concept but taking for herself."

"Enough," ground out Jaime. "I don't want to speak of her any more."

"As you wish," acquiesced Tyrion, and he released his brother's armored shoulder and leaned back against the headboard.

"But I do want to speak of my escape. How did you pull it off?"

Tyrion smirked and pretended to dust off his shoulders. "Think nothing of it, dear brother. I just did what I do best: pull strings with a cup of wine in hand."

He was rewarded with a long laugh from Jaime. "Well, no matter how you did it, I want to thank you. If Frey hadn't shown up, I'd still be back in that Stark cell, ears full of Catelyn Stark's righteous abuse."

Tyrion smiled. "I'll be expecting repayment in the form of an upgrade from his eyesore of a room. If nothing else, just get me some wine."

"Your wish is my command, sire," replied Jaime, standing and bowing playfully. "Your cup shall runneth over."

And, for a moment, Tyrion didn't care if his sister wanted him dead. He had his brother back.


	4. Wolf in the Lion's Den

Chapter 4-Wolf in the Lion's Den

oOoOoOo

"Lions, wolves, and vultures don't live together in herds, droves or flocks. Of all animals of prey, man is the only sociable one. Every one of us preys upon his neighbor, and yet we herd together."

~John Gay

oOoOoOo

Jaime Lannister

Jaime sat across his sister at a large mahogany table in the Tower of the Hand, his father at the head and his brother at the opposite end. It was bound to be a traditional Lannister family gathering; that is, one that was more than likely to end with them all at each other's throats, as most did. Tywin had promised them he would shed light on what he called "several very important pieces of news", and Jaime found his words not to bode well. He could tell his siblings shared the same notion, as they both held a look of both nervousness and intrigue, and Cersei impatiently tapped her foot. Whatever that was about to be revealed would no doubt be quite impactful on their family, as Jaime noticed that important members of both the Royal Court and the Small Council were absent.

Lord Tywin Lannister, Hand of the King and Warden of the West, cleared his throat as though to silence chatter, though no one was speaking. The room was as silent as a funeral procession.

"My children," he began, his eyes passing over them all, lip slightly curling as the piercing Lannister green-and-gold gaze rested on Tyrion. "There are several things to be addressed today, and we cannot afford to waste any time. That means, in simpler terms, I will not tolerate any distractions. Especially from you, Tyrion."

They eyed each other for a brief moment, and Jaime felt the air of the room constrict ever so slightly, before his father continued.

"Firstly, I'd like to congratulate Jaime on his successful escape from the paws of the wolves. The Starks are not pleased, and it has proved a very useful thorn in their side that will only poke deeper after today."

Jaime found he did not like the omen his father had just illustrated.

Tyrion huffed at the other end of the table. "And I wonder just how his escape came to be successful…"

"Tyrion…" Tywin warned, regal voice clipped and closing any space for retort. Tyrion crossed his arms like a petulant schoolboy but spoke no further. Jaime glanced at him, hoping to catch his eye and convey his gratitude without words, but his brother stared hard at the wall, brows furrowed and meeting at the top of his nose like two golden kissing caterpillars.

"As you were saying, Father…" came Cersei's over-saccharine voice, and Jaime felt repulsed to even hear her talk. He purposefully skipped over her and returned his gaze to Tywin, who still looked hard at his dwarf son across the table.

"As I was saying," he continued, an edge to his tone. "Jaime is back, and that means we can discuss fully the advancement of the future of this family. The Tyrells have arrived, and of course, the daughter of Mace Tyrell is to marry Joffrey. This reason for this move should be fairly evident to you all. The Reach is powerful, and with the Tyrells swathed in Lannister cloak, we will find ourselves with a very strong force that the Stark boy would be fool to reckon with."

Jaime was rapidly growing bored of his father's monologue. This information was stale, and the comment involving the thorn was starting to irk him. His father clearly had something big planned for him, undoubtedly something political and controversial. He wondered briefly about assassination plots and positions as he began to drum five aristocratic fingers on the wooden surface of the table.

Tywin glanced at him. "Getting restless, Jaime? The Lord of Casterley Rock should never openly display his lack of interest."

Jaime's eyes shot to his father's as Cersei made a choked sound and Tyrion jumped out of his chair.

"You meant to say Heir to Casterley Rock, I assume, Father," the little man interjected.

"I meant what I said, Tyrion. Now sit down."

"You can't be serious, Father!" hissed the little man. "Jaime is a member of the Kingsguard, or has senility finally set in with you?!"

"A matter that shall quickly be taken care of by the King," shot back Tywin, his hands balling into large fists. "Jaime is to be released of his duties by Joffrey on the morrow, and he will marry and claim his inheritance at the Rock."

It was Cersei's turn to be outraged.

"Jaime has always been a loyal member of the Kingsguard! You cannot just ask him forsake his vows so frivolously! And just who will he marry? There is no one-,"

"Enough!" barked Tywin, cutting her off. "I will hear no more of this. And you Cersei, should be more mindful of your own marriage."

Cersei gaped at him, mouth slightly ajar, beautiful face colored with emotion.

"You are to marry Loras Tyrell as soon as possible."

Jaime was positive he had never seen Cersei fly into such a state so quickly. The air instantly electrified, and the Queen Regent leapt to her feet, a sole, ringed finger jutting out toward their father. She bared her teeth like a madwoman, and her features contorted into the very personification of fury.

"I will NOT!" she shouted, spittle flying in every direction like a volley of little liquid arrows. "You can choose spouses for my brothers, but I will not allow you to pick mine again. I will not be-,"

Thunder erupted in the room as Tywin slammed his fist on the table, a rare exhibition of loss of control for the Lannister patriarch. Cersei's diatribe was immediately exchanged for silence, and she slowly lowered herself back into her chair, chest heaving. Tyrion, on the other hand, looked concurrently amused at his sister's bitterness and frightened at his father's outburst.

Jaime was just annoyed.

Twyin momentarily gathered himself before speaking, his voice so low and sharp Jaime thought it could have taken off all of their legs.

"I will hear not one more little chirp from you, Cersei. Not a single one. If you dare defy me again, I will marry you to the cripple, Willas Tyrell, and you will have to live out the rest of your days lifting his frail, beanpole body from his bed every morning. Make no mistake."

Cersei shook with anger like a tree in a tempest. Jaime couldn't help but feel like she was getting what she deserved. Her chance at true Queenhood now severely diminished, she would be left gnawing at other people's skirts and getting but a tiny taste of the crown. He knew he still loved her deep down, but he was being roughly shaken from his dreamlike blindness to her character and was finding that she sickened him the more he looked.

"Tyrion," his father bit out, signaling the next part of business has arrived. "I have not yet found a suitable match for you. Until I do, you will assume the duties of Master of Coin, as Baelish will be reigning in the Vale for the Lannister sigil."

Tyrion said nothing, but years of growing accustomed to his brother's mannerisms told Jaime that he was sorely unhappy, judging from the hard purse of his lips and the gaze that could have set the room ablaze.

"And that leaves you, Jaime, the soon-to-be Lord of Casterley Rock." His father's face filled with the vestiges of pride, and Jaime smiled slightly in spite of himself. His ego had taken a brutal blow at the hands (or legs, rather) of Cersei, but the pride of his father could still spark that familiar glow in his chest. "I have found you a satisfactory wife, and one that will be undoubtedly crucial in our struggle with the North."

Jaime's chest suddenly tightened, and Cersei's mouth began to open. Though they may not have believed it, every occupant in the room knew what was about to come.

Tywin gave him a sly grin. "You will be wed to Sansa Stark, and your child will be Heir to Winterfell."

oOoOoOo

Sansa Stark

The needle wove back and forth and back and forth, slowly bringing the threads together one by one, something recognizable forming from the motion. Sansa Stark rested comfortably in a small chair by her hearth as she knit, working on a small woolen cap that she planned to knit a wolf onto. She supposed if she ever were to see Arya again, she might as well have something to give her.

She had originally begun the hat as a gift for her brother Rickon, but the news of his and her other brother Bran's deaths had quickly changed the name of the recipient. She had been shattered; she didn't know how much more death she could take. First her father, at the hand of the wicked and horrible Joffrey, and now her brothers, though the case of the latter was even worse. Theon Greyjoy had been her friend, had grown up with her, had loved her brothers and her like family. It hadn't seemed to matter that he was her father's ward; he appeared to be pleased with his station. But oh, how had they all been wrong; Theon Turncloak now reigned in their old home with the blood of her brother's staining his once Stark coat.

It had surprised her deeply when Jaime had comforted her. He had personally delivered the news, sat with her as she cried, even held her to his breast as the sobs threatened to send her careening to the floor. It had been almost…affectionate. Truthfully, he had been continually astonishing her since the night of the Blackwater. Trant had appeared, drunk as a victorious warrior and as menacing as a feral dog, and had attacked her, throwing her to the floor and giving her various bruises and lacerations. He had almost…she swallowed thickly as she thought of what might have been done to her.

But nothing beyond her physical wounds had occurred. A sword, a savior's sword, had been driven through the awful man's chest, and to her utter shock it had been none other than the Queen's brother holding it. It was the single most kind act anyone had ever bothered to do for her in King's Landing, scant for the time Tyrion had saved her from humiliation in front of Joffrey's court, and it made her realize that perhaps not all was lost.

She had wondered one question for weeks: why? However, she had never been given the chance to ask, as Jaime had quickly disappeared after delivering the news of her brothers' deaths, and thus she had been left to ponder Jaime's motivation for weeks. He was a Lannister; he was a member of the Kingsguard. She understood thoroughly for whom he fought. But, somehow, she couldn't help but feel that perhaps she had one protector in that awful city, even if he bore the colors of her family's most hated enemy's sigil.

Presently, a knock made the wood of her door come alive, and before she could address it the thing had swung open, and Queen Cersei had stepped inside.

Sansa's stomach dropped.

She stood, placing her knitting materials aside. "Your Grace," she greeted, voice timorous but courteous. "How nice it is of you to come and visit me."

The Queen Regent moved quickly inside the room and ordered her guards to remain outside.

"Sansa, my dear!" she exclaimed, tone so sickeningly sweet Sansa thought her teeth would yellow to even hear it. "Please, have a seat. I won't be here long, unfortunately for you. I've just come to bring you the most wonderful of news!"

Sansa obeyed and felt her stomach plummet even further. A chill crept across her shoulders. "I thank you, Your Grace. What news do you bring?"

The Queen Regent walked swiftly behind her and grabbed a hairbrush off of a nearby endtable. She grabbed Sansa's head rather roughly and began to yank the bristles of the brush through her long, auburn locks. Sansa suppressed a yelp.

"Tell me, sweet little Stark, have you ever been with a man before?"

Her face began to match her hair at the Queen's question.

"Your Grace! I am a maiden; of course I have not been with a man." She felt herself heating up involuntarily at the subject matter at hand.

Cersei let the brush fall through her hair several more times before she abruptly grasped a fistful of it and jerked downward. Sansa shrieked in pain, and the Queen Regent lowered her mouth to Sansa's ear.

"Then how do you expect to please a man like Jaime?"

An alarm burst into life in Sansa's head. Jaime? Please? Nothing but confusion welled up in her brain. Perhaps they had found out about Jaime's actions at the Blackwater? Fear gripped her as she realized they might punish her for what the eldest Lanniser brother had done. They would blame her for Meryn Trant's death, and she would never see the light of day again!

"Your Grace?" she responded, voice high and nonplussed.

Thankfully, the Queen Regent released her hair and walked around the chair. She stood before her, fingers on hips, sizing up the pretty Stark girl. The brush looked like a dagger in her bony hand.

"You," she began disdainfully. "Are to marry my brother Jaime. You will be a good little wife for him. You will do anything he asks of you. You might even bear him children. But," she hissed, leaning in closer. "He will never love you. You might even love him someday. But get this clear: He will never want you."

Sansa reeled. Her head spun like a cup rolled down the hill, trying to digest the firebomb of information Cersei had just dropped upon her. Me? Marry Jaime? It can't be.

Jaime?

The man who had slain Trant. The man who had injured her father. The Kingslayer. The Commander of the Kingsguard. One of the most undeniably handsome men in Westeros and one of the most dangerous. He represented everything she was supposed to hate and everything that lurked in the shadow of her mind as her body slept.

And she was to marry him.

All at once, she wanted to run, she wanted to scream, she wanted to laugh with joy that she was being spared from marrying Joffrey. Most of all, she wanted her mother. Her mother should have been there to hear her wedding announcement. Hot tears stung Sansa's eyes. She looked up, trying to find the Queen Regent through the wet blindness.

Cersei was already halfway across the room, heading for the door. As she reached it, she stopped and turned around. Looking Sansa up and down, she said, "Remember, bitch, that he will never truly be yours."

Then she was gone, leaving Sansa with nothing but her knitting and the thoughts of a particular blonde-haired knight.


	5. The Changing of Colors

Chapter 5-The Changing of Colors

oOoOoOo

"Life is a series of natural and spontaneous changes. Don't resist them; that only creates sorrow. Let reality be reality. Let things flow naturally forward in whatever way they like."

~Lao Tzu

oOoOoOo

Jaime Lannister

He found her early the morning following the news of their betrothal. She was horribly careworn; little white bags of flesh hung from her Tully cerulean eyes and her hair was disheveled and faded. She looked to Jaime like a tired solider, but instead of exhaustion from facing swords and far journeys, it came from loss and the claws of the Lannister lions. Helpless, but strangely strong in her own fashion; beautiful…

Jaime roughly shook his head to loosen that arrow of thought. She was to be his wife, but most wives didn't consider their husband to be an enemy. It was to Jaime an almost insulting affair. To be wed to the Kingslayer, the brother of the Queen Regent who mistreated her at every opportunity, the son of the man who held her captive, the father of the king who took a barbarous pleasure in removing Eddard Stark's head from his shoulders; it was almost like rubbing dirt in an already horribly infected wound. If he had his way he would be far from the affairs of King's Landing, perhaps following his Uncle Gerion across the Narrow Sea.

Presently, Sansa looked up at him, her soft eyes wide and expressive, telling him everything he needed to know. Gods, he thought. She is so young. Couldn't be more than four-and-ten. He knelt before her.

"Well, it seems we are to be wed," he said rather lamely. He offered her a shrug of the shoulders, and she smiled ever so slightly in response.

"It would seem so, my lord," she replied, biting her lip. Jaime's eyes followed to the sight, and he felt himself unconsciously shudder. "When are we to have the ceremony?"

He stood up and turned around, and he could see the sunspots his armor cast on the floor. He frowned slightly, knowing that his days were numbered of donning the protective garb of the Kingsguard. Would he miss it? Probably never. But he liked the idea of being bound to something by an oath, despite his history. People would probably be up in arms if they discovered that he, Jaime Lannister, considered himself a man who acted with nobility the most he could, though the Seven Kingdoms all proclaimed him a murderer. An oath always aided him. He wondered briefly if anyone would ever understand what he had done for the Realm.

"Soon. Probably less than a moon. You and I both know how eager my family is to tie up their assets." He grimaced and picked up a small doll he found on the hearth. "What have we here?"

She mad a little noise behind him, as if in protest, and he laughed, his easy voice filling the room.

"Relax!" he proclaimed. "I'm not going to do anything to it! Though, it is rather ugly…"

She huffed from her spot on the chair. "And what do Lannisters play with? Mice and the heads of their enemies?"

Instantly, she clasped her hand over her mouth, before taking it away just as quickly and beginning to stutter an apology. "Ser Jaime, I meant no-,"

Her contrition was met with more laughter from the Kingslayer.

"Sweet girl," he said, walking back to her and putting the doll in her arms. "Of everyone in this city, it is I you must take least seriously. I am to be your husband, for the Seven's sake!"

She smiled, her white and straight teeth peeking out from over her lips. Though, he noticed, there was a bit of wariness to her, a hesitancy. The trust would take a long time to build.

He lowered to a knee once more, glancing at the figurine in her arms. "So, does our little straw friend have a name?"

"Yes." A look of both hurt and reminiscence passed over her pretty features. "Her name is Lady, after the direwolf I had in Winterfell. The one Cersei ordered killed."

Jaime remembered. Cersei had been furious over the bite the wolf had delivered their son (though Jaime was under the impression he had earned it) and had commanded her men kill it. Lannister men were not given the pleasure though, as Eddard Stark had volunteered and had put the wolf down himself. Jaime could tell the event had left a lasting scar on her mind.

"Ah, yes, Lady. If it means anything to you, I thought Joffrey deserved that bite, but don't tell the Queen!"

Sansa finally laughed, a chime tinkling in a summer breeze. Jaime found he very much enjoyed the sound, and he made a promise to himself then and there that he would try and elicit that endearing little sound from her whenever he could.

She sat silent a moment, before her gaze took flight and found Jaime's jade eyes.

"My lord, if I may, why did you save me that night?"

Jaime shivered at the question. He had been wondering, since the Blackwater, when the subject would be introduced. It had eaten away at his psyche everywhere he went; the query that he couldn't even begin to comprehend the answer to. He swallowed thickly and cursed himself. Answer her; you're not some tongueless boy.

"I don't even know the reason," he responded earnestly. "I was on my way to-to someone who I love. And then I saw you. Frightened, cornered. You are a wolf; that man was a bastard. He was a member of my own guard. In that moment, I saw a man throw away everything his oath stood for, and it dislodged something in me. It is obvious you think all Lannisters are the same: treacherous, bloodthirsty, selfish. But, sometimes, you might have to look past the coal to see the diamond."

He wanted her to know so badly that he was capable of good, that he wasn't Cersei, or Joffrey, or his damned father. Hope was not enough for him. She had to understand.

Sansa forgot her courtesies.

"But, you didn't have to. You could have walked right past; you've seen horrible things in war, haven't you? Why was this any different?" Her soft voice was pleading.

Jaime reached up and cupped her chin with three fingers.

"Because, sweet girl," he answered, and he felt her lean faintly into his touch. "I couldn't let you suffer that fate. You've suffered enough. You're much more deserving than Trant's hands."

Her eyes filled with tears that made her irises look like little oceans.

"I-I've been so alone," she choked out, beginning to cry. "I'm sorry, my lord, I'm just a silly little girl. You don't need-,"

Jaime thought himself only capable of physical affection in the bedroom, but the urge to take her into his arms was simply too great. He wordlessly gathered her to him and lifted her from her chair, cradling her all the way to her bed. He set her down, her small, sobbing form in his lap, and she buried her face in his chest. With one hand he rubbed her back and the other he smoothed her hair. His whiskered face rested atop her head, and he breathed of her deeply, the scent of lilac and honey filling his nose. She even smells beautiful, he thought.

Eventually, her fit subsided, and she simply sat curled into his chest. She lifted her head and looked at him with genuine gratitude, placing a small, alabaster hand on his chest. "Thank you, Jaime. I know you're not a bad person."

Jaime almost catapulted back at her words and the sensation that erupted in his chest, but the bewilderment did not appear on his features.

"Consider it the first of many acts of atonement."

He then placed her aside him on the bed, rising to his feet and beginning to make his way to the door, when suddenly, a thought stayed him. He had to let her know that she was not alone anymore.

"I have to go now, wife-to-be. Remember this: you are to be a Lannister. No one will harm you anymore. If the situation occurs, come directly to me." He smiled as she nodded fervently, his handsome face wrinkling. "Goodbye, Sansa."

Jaime Lannister walked out of her chambers feeling like a noble man.

oOoOoOo

Sansa Stark

She was fatherless, her mother was across the land, she was in some all but totally foreign place, and she was getting married.

Lord Tywin had sent her a dress of his own design; Lannister red and gold, it was long, flowing, and accentuated every curve and valley of her body. Though she supremely disliked what the garment stood for, she could not help but admire its beauty. Men would certainly be watching her hungrily today, but, for some inexplicable reason, she really only cared what Jaime thought of her in the dress. With a head full of questions, he furrowed her brows and turned to look over herself in the mirror once more.

"Oh, my new and dearest sister, you look so lovely today."

Queen Cersei had arrived with the handmaidens early in the day to prepare Sansa for the wedding. She was in good spirits; Sansa assumed the alcohol on her breath had put her there. At least she isn't torturous, thought the Stark girl.

"You almost look good enough to be a Lannister," the Queen Regent continued lightheartedly, as if she were doling out a compliment. "Almost good enough for Jaime."

Sansa reddened at her words but made no attempt to respond. The Queen had always taken a vicious enjoyment at throwing her verbal darts at Sansa, and she knew her wedding day would be no different. She could only hope she could hold it together for long enough to be back in her bedchambers and away from all of them. Her eyes widened when it hit her that the room she had called her only sanctuary would no longer be hers. She would now be co-owner to a bed and chambers with Jaime Lannister.

"You know, of course, what happens on a wedding night, don't you, little dove?"

Sansa turned an even deeper shade of red. "I-I do, Your Grace," she stammered, averting her eyes from the Queen and her awful remarks.

Cersei laughed, a wretched noise that pierced Sansa's ears and filled her with a prevailing dread. "Well, little child, you certainly don't know what you're really in for. I've been told that Jaime…is a bit rough in his ways. Hopefully, he won't be too firm with you."

Thankfully, Sansa's thoughts were torn from Jaime's actions in the marriage bed when a knock came at the door. It was a small cadre of Lannister guards, ready to take her to the Great Sept, where the wedding's watchers and participants had gathered. Sansa didn't particularly like the idea of being escorted to her own wedding ceremony by an armed host, but it wasn't like she had much say in the matter. Quickly looking over herself in the mirror once more, she followed Cersei and the guards out of her room and into the jaws of the lions.

As she walked through the halls of the building, Sansa pondered what married life to Jaime Lannister would entail. Recently, he had managed to poke a hole in her iron idea of Lannister cruelty and incorrigibility, and that gave her some, though not much, hope that the future with the Kingslayer by her side might not be all battering and misery. At the very least, she could breathe more freely now that she was to be released from her impending marriage to Joffrey. Betrothal to the incarnation of the seven hells would have pushed her far over the precipice.

You've suffered enough.

His words rang through her head as loud and clear as the moment they had fallen past his lips. If he truly meant them, she did not know, but nonetheless, it had meant the world to her to hear someone say them. Embarrassment flooded through her like a hot wind as she recalled how she had burst into tears at his display of comfort. It was quickly replaced by a warmness, however, when the memory was followed up with the image of his arms snaking around her in the most unforeseen of gestures. If she ever told her mother she had been hugged by the Kingslayer, she was sure she would have been called madder than any Targaryen.

The troupe reached the Great Sept, and much to Sansa's displeasure, Joffrey was the first to reach her.

He leaned his foul head in close to hers. "Whatever it is Jaime does to you tonight, I will do a thousand times over when I take you into my bed." Sansa's stomach clenched, and she gasped. He guffawed. His ratlike face gleamed with malice as he turned from her and looked out over the crowd.

"Friends, I thank you all for coming to my Uncle's wedding. However, before this lovely union can be finalized, there is some business to be taken care of." He looked to his grandfather Tywin, who nodded in encouragement. Joffrey motioned to Jaime, who approached him and took a knee. "My Uncle Jaime, Commander of the Kingsguard, has served the Crown dutifully his entire life. He has given much to the Crown, and it is time I gave back. It is out of the utmost gratitude that I release him from his service to claim his inheritance and be wed."

"Thank you, Your Grace," stated Jaime evenly, though his words held no sentiment. He rose and turned, and Joffrey removed the white cloak from his back and placed it in his arms. Protocol completed, Jaime returned to his station at the front of the septry to the applause of the gathered.

"Next," announced Joffrey, glancing sideways at Sansa. "Is the matter of my betrothal to the Lady Sansa Stark. I have recently been introduced to the love of another woman, a woman of great stance and beauty, and I have chosen to marry her. It is out of great respect for me and the Lady Sansa that my Uncle Jaime has confessed his love and expressed his desire to wed her." The little brute smirked. "I was touched. Thusly, I have graciously turned the hand of the Lady Sansa over to my Uncle, and I will wed the Lady Margaery Tyrell."

Polite clapping broke out amongst the people, and Joffrey stepped down to be replaced by Tywin, who was suddenly at Sansa's side.

"You will be a good bride to Jaime, won't you, my dear?"

She nodded ardently.

"And you will bear him sons?"

She blushed slightly, but the elder man didn't seem to notice. "Of course, my lord."

He gave her the lion's grin. "Very good."

The ceremony commenced as Tywin led her to Jaime in the stead of her father, and to Sansa it all passed in a blur. She barely registered Jaime draping his cloak over her, them both repeating the sacred words that so many before her had, some out of love and some like her, at the beck of the sword, and his placement of a gorgeous ring, gold and glittering rubies, upon her slender finger. They ultimately faced one another as the High Septon announced for them to take the Marriage Kiss.

She looked at him, eyes running over every bit of his face. It had never truly occurred to her before then just how handsome he really was, with his square jaw, tanned skin, and lightly whiskered face. Quickly she found that she most liked his eyes. They were two bits of green jewel flecked with slivers of gold that threatened to swallow her into an endless abyss if she gazed too deeply. Handsome and dangerous. The Chance Knight.

Her eyes fluttered shut as their lips met. A spark erupted at the fusion of their mouths, passing through her body and making her skin tingle and her insides hum like the wings of a bee. It was the most wonderful feeling she had ever experienced. Jaime's hand came up to gently cup her face, dragging his thumb over the soft skin of her jaw. And it was over just as soon as it had started, just as she had begun to yield to the deep-seated yearning, and as she pulled away he bore holes into her with a wolfish gaze. Color burned at her cheeks.

The High Septon announced them a formal union, and she truly smiled for the first time in what had felt like the entirety of her life. She glanced at Jaime and was relieved to find that he looked genuinely content. Without further fanfare, he took her hand and led her down the steps.

The feast was short and elegant. Sansa enjoyed the food, though she only ate the small amount her nervous stomach would allow. Her husband looked as he did at most events, bored and restless, though she when he would look at her he would always smile. And every time her heart would flutter.

Music was struck up, and the flock of wedding watchers made their way to the dance floor. Sansa was surprised when Jaime offered her a hand, which she gladly accepted. Dancing, along with walking in the woods and feeling the brisk chill of a winter's night, was one of the many pleasures she could not attain as a captive in King's Landing. Though, I'm not much of a captive anymore.

Jaime twirled her around with ease, his attractive features crinkling with laughter as she reacted to his most unexpected dancing ability. "What did you expect, a graceless buffoon? I'm a Lannister!" She joined him in mirth, and they danced together, the Lion and the Wolf intertwining, for a while before another eager man came and relieved Jaime of her.

She danced with Ser Loras, Garlan Tyrell, and many other men of which she forgot the names while the music morphed from soaring highs to heart-wrenching lows. No matter who held her in their arms to the beat, however, she found she missed her original dance partner above all. She excused herself from her current partner, Tywin, whose grace she was even more surprised with than Jaime's on the dance floor, to search out her husband.

After a moment of scouring, she located him across the room, seated at a table next to Cersei. Their conversation did not seem pleasant, as Jaime's face was contorted in disgust and the Queen Regent looked furious. She gasped as she watched Cersei raise a hand to strike him. Jaime deftly caught her arm mid-swing and shoved her away from him, and she proceeded to storm out of the room.

Sansa had heard the rumors of Jaime and Cersei. Whether she wanted to believe them or not, she could not help the throbbing in her gut that told her they were true. She just couldn't grasp how something so evil as Joffrey could have been sprung from a man like Jaime. Well, at least we know where he got it from. She grimaced.

Sansa maneuvered her way through the crowd and to him. He found her eyes and pursed his lips. The unhappy look of the Kingslayer.

"Well, sweet wife," he said, voice a bit hoarse. "Is it time to retire?"

She bit her lip and nodded, the agitation returning to prod her stomach. He beamed at her, gently taking her hand as he had earlier in the septry and guiding her away from the music and people and holy vows.

Sansa took her opportunity as they journeyed to ask Jaime about what she had witnessed.

"Jaime, what happened with Cersei while I was dancing?"

She was caught off guard when he countered her.

"Was that the first time you've kissed a man, Sansa?"

She blushed, ever the maiden, but shook her head. "No, there was one other time." She smiled slightly as the memory played in her head. "Theon Greyjoy. My father's ward. He kissed me when we were younger. It was awful." A guffaw from Jaime. "Clumsy, sloppy. To make it even worse, somehow my father had found out. Everyone was sure he was going to have Theon's head, but no one knows what my father said or did to him. All I knew was that from then on Theon avoided me like I had a terrible disease."

Lannister laughter rung through the hall, reverberating like old pipes struck with a hammer. Sansa wanted to drown in it. "That bad? Though I guess I don't have to worry about my performance, then."

She thought that one kiss was enough to assure her that he was the best in the entire world.

Jaime's chuckles melted into silence. Sansa glanced over to find her husband with a brooding expression sliding across his face.

"Cersei threatened you," he muttered. "And she didn't take kindly to the fact that I wouldn't allow any harm to come to you. That's when she tried and failed to slap me."

They presently reached Jaime's bedchambers. But before she could see the inside of her new home, she did the unthinkable. With a tentative hand, she reached up and pulled Jaime's head down to hers, their lips meeting in searing kiss that made the world fall away around her. He moved his lips desperately against hers, sliding his tongue easily into her mouth. Sansa moaned involuntarily, and Jaime roughly found and squeezed he firm backside in response. He pushed her through the door and into the room, nibbling her exquisite lips the entire way.

Sansa thought she would collapse from the sheer ecstasy that shot up and down her spine, accumulating at the base of her neck in a tempest of vibrations. It felt surreal. Jaime's lips slid across her cheek and to her ear, which he claimed with his mouth, nibbling and sucking lightly. She couldn't have stopped the soft sounds that escaped her if she had tried. Calloused but gentle hands roamed the landscape of her body, resting on her hips and then cupping her backside before traveling back up to her neck. Time had become nothing.

Her eyes instantly shot open as her husband began to kiss down her neck and to the skin just before her breasts. His fingers came up to caress and explore, but Sansa knew she had to stop. How badly she wanted it now was a story that would have a different plot in the morning. She would never be able to forgive herself if she let herself be wedded and bedded in one fell swoop by a Lannister who spoke pretty words and gave her an enchanting ring. She placed two hands on his shoulders and gradually pushed him away until they broke contact.

For a moment, Sansa thought she had made a grave mistake as something hard flashed across Jaime's eyes. "I-I'm sorry, Jaime, it's just, I-,"

He silenced her with a finger to her slightly bruised lips. Ragged breaths came to him, and his face was as equally flushed as she felt hers to be. When he spoke, his voice was low and so raspy she thought it might chafe the skin of her throat.

"You cannot imagine how badly I want this, Sansa, and I am your husband. This right belongs to me, and I should take it from you."

There it was. Sansa knew his honor had a limit, that the goodness in him would run out as surely as the moon rose in the darkness. She began to steel herself for her duty, but she could not help the fear that began to scrabble at the bottom of her skull.

"But I won't."

She gaped at him, utterly shocked.

"I won't force you," he continued. His green eyes were warm, soft. "I want it to be special when it happens. I want you to have complete freedom in this bedroom."

Sansa's heart could have burst.

"But," he said, growing serious. "My father will be expecting proof of consummation on the morrow." He walked over to the bed. "So let's give it to him."

In a flash, he pulled out a small knife and dragged it across his palm, crimson immediately weeping from the fresh wound and pooling on the sheet.

Then Jaime smiled at her.


	6. Terror and Revelations

Chapter 6-Terror and Revelations

oOoOoOo

"All parents damage their children. It cannot be helped. Youth, like pristine glass, absorbs the prints of its handlers. Some parents smudge, others crack, a few shatter childhoods completely into jagged little pieces, beyond repair."

~Mitch Albom

oOoOoOo

Tyrion Lannister

It was barely midday, and he was already working on a fifth glass of wine. He surmised that, though a bit excessive to some men, it was only a drop in the bucket that he would be needing to drink. He would be requiring copious more amounts of alcohol if he wanted to get through Joffery and Margaery Tyrell's wedding without maiming someone.

Tywin looked disapprovingly at him from several seats down the Royal Table. Tyrion made a show of refilling his glass to the very tip top, and then clapping gleefully when it did not spill over. His father gazed away in disgust. As long as he would suffer through this, he would at least be entertained.

Tyrion looked over all the guests of prominence to his left and right. There was first the oafish Mace Tyrell, the head of the family but clearly not the playmaker, and Lady Olenna Redwyne, the Queen of Thorns, a woman of whom he thought very highly, one of the few he considered on par with his own intelligence. Loras Tyrell sat near his grandmother, appearing pompous though subdued. On the Lannister end, there was Cersei, seated next to Joffrey, and he wondered if at any point in his life she would ever let the boy breathe. Though, his restrictions were admittedly for the best. Aside Joffrey and looking radiant as the summer sun was Margaery Tyrell, of whom Tyrion often thought was very good at the dangerous game they were all playing. Next was his own father, dressed in Lannister gold and crimson and looking as fearsome as a titan. Lastly were Jaime and Sansa. Tyrion thought the former looked just like his old self, carefree and full of good humor, while the latter seemed somehow similarly content. He noticed his brother continually whisper into her ear, and she would often laugh or make a face at the words that he slipped to her, unheard by all. They appeared…comfortable with one another.

Tyrion's reverie was interrupted as Joffrey stood up and began to speak. At least the boy wasn't ill of tongue; that would make him the worst king in the history of the Seven Kingdoms.

Joffrey thanked them all in a superficial and arrogant tone, followed by a proclamation that this day would truly be the best in all of history. Tyrion could have gagged on the boy's words had they been transformed into awful morsels. Jaime instantly looked bored, while his wife gazed away, probably unable to bear the bitch boy of a king. He even noticed his father seeming a little impatient, the eldest Lannister crossing his arms.

Tyrion could have jumped for joy, though he figured he wouldn't have made much of a distraction, when Joffrey announced the feast would begin a short time later. As the first dish was served, a soup made of lentils and scallops, the whiny king demanded that the first entertainer take the floor.

Hamish the Harper quickly assumed the spot and sang several songs that made Tyrion's heart burn. He loved music, but unfortunately he had been born into the wrong family. One that desired political supremacy and bloodshed. Secretly, he had purchased a small lute and was teaching himself to play in his spare time, as he found he had much of it as Master of Coin.

Next came a trained bear, and Joffrey was delighted when it was fed, the beast's massive jaws closing around a huge piece of meat and tearing it to pieces. It was frightened and angry, a king in its own right made to roll and snort at the crack of a whip. Tyrion felt badly for it. Then came the Pentoshi tumblers, and Tyrion enjoyed their performance, reminiscing on his childhood at the Rock, when he would somersault across the supper table to the hoots of his favorite uncle, Gerion, and the shouts of his father.

There were many acts to follow, and the guests were tickled when Dontos Hollard and the Fools did a comedy routine, were frightened when the pyromancers gave them all a visceral reminder of the era of the Targaryens, and finally were touched when Gayleon of Cur, a singer from the Reach, performed a tribute to the Battle of the Blackwater, comprised of 77 verses. Tyrion found it all quite droll and poured himself another glass of wine.

As he sloppily emptied the liquid into his cup, Joffrey stood once more, and announced that he had one last bit of entertainment for them all. He then turned to Tyrion, his smug little face screwed up in what he supposed was Joffrey's version of a smile, and said, "This one's for you, Uncle."

Tryion watched in growing trepidation as a drawbridge to a false, wooden castle opened. The blackness of the inside stood unknowable, and Tyrion was quickly drenched in a vicious thunderstorm of fury as two dwarfs rode out of it, one riding a sow and the other a dog, each holding a miniature lance and dressed in equally proportioned armor. Tyrion leapt to his feet instantaneously, his sharp tongue failing him as the anger strangled any of his attempts at speech. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Jaime was on his feet too, hands clenching the table.

"Go on!" cried the little piece of shit menace of a king with unadulterated glee. "Have at it!"

Joffrey walked out from the table to take a close seat as the two dwarves began to joust, and after the one on the sow was knocked off, the defeated pulled out a painted mask of what looked to be Eddard Stark.

"Alas, I, Eddard Stark, have been vanquished!" shouted the dwarf. "Though, I would venture to say, you'd much rather have this, erm…handsome head atop a spike for the whole town to see!"

Tyrion had never been more enraged in his entire life. He looked to his brother, who had taken to comforting his wife, Sansa becoming visibly upset at the cruel ignominy cast upon her father. He looked then to his sister, who didn't even crack a smile at the debacle that was unfolding but said not a word. Lastly, he tried his gaze on his father, who looked uneasy but made no effort to stop the travesty. Not one of them cared enough for him to take a stand, and at that notion the breath was stolen right from him, as if he had been hit in the gut with an iron battering ram.

"Uncle!" shrieked his nephew, through gusts of laughter that poured forth from his bastard mouth. "Come out here and stand next to me!"

Tyrion knew he had no choice. If he attempted anything, he'd be turned into a meal for the birds in a second's notice. He slowly stalked out and up to the king, whose horrid face held a cruelty that no gods could have given a man. Joffrey seemed to be the only one enjoying the act, as the crowd was quiet and unresponsive.

The Boy King turned to the dwarves.

"Come on, then, next round. I want to see Robb Stark fly from his horse!"

The little men resaddled their respective mounts and were about to set off at one another when Joffrey interrupted.

"No, even better! Why don't you go join them, Uncle? We'll get you a nice goat to ride, and you can be Stannis Baretheon; what do you say?"

Tyrion had never known abject hate; he didn't hate his father, despite the man's blatant resentment of him. However, Joffrey Baratheon had just inspired him with the newfound feeling, and Tyrion felt himself begin to shake.

His voice was that of blade meeting blade. "I will not."

What little talk went on ceased around them as the two committed the foulest of sins with their eyes.

"I am the king!" shouted Joffrey, and Tyrion's ears stung at the volume and pitch of the boy's intonation. "You will do as I say, or you will pay. Now, get out there, Uncle!"

Tyrion let silence speak for him, and he didn't move a single step.

Joffrey, a twisted being of pride and malevolence, took this as a slight on his ruling power, and instead of doing anything remotely kinglike, he turned, grabbed a chalice full of wine, and dumped it over his uncle's head. Tyrion instantly shut his eyes as the alcohol ran into them and sizzled like a ham breakfast over a fire. Joffrey, without missing a beat, then turned and addressed the crowd.

"My Uncle Tyrion has just volunteered to be my cupbearer for the day. Isn't that wonderful?"

The gathered court appeared far from comfortable, and some of them even held looks of concern. Some, even, of pity.

Joffrey's torment of his uncle and the festivities were suddenly interrupted by the arrival of the pie, an enourmous culinary creation that took six men to cook and serve. The king momentarily forgot Tyrion and jubilantly strutted over to the pie. Ser Illyn Payne was given the duty of cutting the large pie, and he did so with his sword, opening it and setting free some doves from within.

The Boy King declared it excellent, and Tyrion thought that, disturbingly, the best compliment the boy had ever given was to a giant pie.

Tyrion had returned to his seat, his hair and clothes wet, his head full of anger and his heart heavy. He found Jaime's eyes down the table, and his brother at least had the common courtesy to look mortified. Jaime shook his head, and Tyrion read an apology in his expression.

He was about to dig into his own bit of pie when suddenly, to his left, someone shrieked.

And that was when all hell had broken loose.

Joffrey, his wicked nephew, was choking. People began to jump from their seats, and a scramble ensued as the Kingsguard rushed to aid their king, who had fallen to the floor. Cersei screamed at the highest capacity of her lungs, begging for someone to help her son. Tyrion had remained motionless, his processing skills slightly dampened by the alcohol, and Jaime and Sansa had done the same. He began to back slowly out from the table and around to where his father stood, barking and bellowing.

And that was when he saw him. A face he had never seen before. The man was dressed like a guard, though Tyrion could not distinctly recall his face. He had a gift for facial recognition, and he could easily tell who everyone was in a sea of people by just a quick glimpse of their countenance. The stranger had tears inked onto his cheeks, and his eyes were completely white, vacant of irises.

Tyrion watched, entranced, as the man moved slowly and deliberately through the crowd like a seamless phantom. He walked past the scene of Joffrey's choking and right up onto the Royal Platform. It was at that moment Tyrion noticed he had a crossbow.

The irisless man stopped directly in the center of the Platform and raised his weapon, aiming it at the heart of Tywin Lannister.

His mind had left him, but his body acted. Tyrion leapt over the table, grabbing a carving knife, just as he heard the words leave the man's mouth.

"I'm so sorry."

He fired at the exact moment Tyrion plunged the dinner instrument into his neck.

The stranger jerked, and Tyrion released the knife as the weight of the falling man tugged at his arm. Tyrion quickly looked up to find his father, the adrenaline pumping through his body, and the sight that met his eyes would haunt him for the rest of his days.

The bolt had missed his father, but not a mark altogether. The blood froze in Tyrion's veins.

It was sunk to the fletching in the white and now vermillion neck of Ser Loras Tyrell.


	7. The Family that Preys Together

Chapter 7-The Family that Preys Together

oOoOoOo

"For what is it to die but to stand naked in the wind and to melt into the sun? And when the earth shall claim your limbs, then shall you truly dance."

~Khalil Gibran

oOoOoOo

Jaime Lannister

The room was grief. The people were spectres. Tears flowed like wine, and wine lost its potency for a time. Mourning, as Death celebrated another guest, and hidden beneath its long shadow justice reveled too. The struggle to immortalize was lost from the onset, from the day the boy's face turned inside out and they all saw a demon. No one would know it, though. Tales would be commissioned that spoke of greatness, and the truth would crawl away to hide, to reveal itself in errant words and holes in the veil. Such was the way of all kings. People don't want to think that ugliness was allowed to wear a crown.

Eventually, the room cleared, and the wishers of condolences and the lesser of name dissolved into Lannister and Tyrell. Jaime sat next to his brother Tyrion, who expressionless looked made of stone, at a large table in the Hand of the King's Tower. He absentmindedly picked at loose varnish on the arm of his chair and let his mind drift to certain auburn-haired little birds. Pleasantness tugged at the corners of his mouth.

Little sniffles emanated from down the table. Jaime glanced over to see Margaery Tyrell, the very definition of utter sorrow, her body covered in a large black garment and Agony patting her on the back. He wondered if the desire for power really had exceeded her need to suffer, to forget. It was no secret (at least to him) that she was miserable only because of her brother, Loras, who lay in the Great Sept with a hole in his gullet the size of a small coin. The bolt, intended for his father but redirected by Tyrion, had pinned the poor knight to the partition behind the table, his hands clutching at his wounded neck for the life that escaped through his lips. Jaime felt sorrier for him than he did for Joffrey, and he didn't really care what that made him.

Joffrey was his son in title but nothing else. Cersei had never allowed him access to him or their other children, with the exception of Tommen, who he occasionally had guarded at her request and at least knew more of than his name and biological constitution. Tommen was sweet, good-natured; Joffrey was cruel, vindictive for nothing, a black art with endless canvas. They were dire opposites, reflections of each other across the human spectrum. He supposed the duality was necessary. His sins begged a monster and a glimmer. One to be the atonement and hold the power of firstborn, the other to provide the silhouette of what could have been.

He had earnestly tried, but grief would just not visit him. There was nothing he could say to himself that would convince the proper feelings to flow. Joffrey was simply another mad king who had fallen before his eyes to him. Maybe, he surmised, someday he would get it. A light blow as he walked along somewhere. It would tap him on the shoulder and whisper, "That was your son." And he would stop, and look respectfully at the ground, and carry on.

Cersei was beside herself. A wailing whirlwind that had not stopped its course from the moment it was announced Joffrey was no more to the some odd hours later when they all found themselves huddled in their own revelations in this room. She had tried to seek comfort from Jaime, and he had stood there unmoving, awkward as he let her rest her head on his shoulders and bawl. He truly pitied her, felt a stab in the ribs for her, but he could not quite reconcile Joffrey's death and her. Salty droplets had wet his shoulders, but to him they might as well have been raindrops.

Silence descended as Lord Tywin stood up, adjusting the golden lion clasp of his cloak at the flush of his throat, no doubt pondering the feel of the crossbow bolt that Loras Tyrell had felt for him. Green and gold eyes wandered the room, and he spoke.

"Tragedy. I can only describe this past day as such. In the wake of such terrible events, we must allow those among us to grieve properly as they need." He nodded politely to Margaery. "Some of lost two. Some of us lost nothing. But, we must all come together, before we can dwell, and take the correct steps to understanding and adjusting to what has just occurred. Joffrey's death has left-,"

Cersei could just not contain herself. "We?! Us all?! How can we come together with a traitor in our midst?" Jaime grit his teeth as she threw a bony finger in Tyrion's direction. "You killed my son you horrible little runt!"

"Don't be a fool, Cersei!" bellowed Tywin, his eyes flashing. "You, as well as everyone else here, saw what he did. I find it hard to believe a man would thwart his own plot, let alone remain at the scene while it happened. You will not condemn a son for saving his father." Jaime's mouth fell open. Tyrion's eyes shone. "Though I have questioned him in the past, I believe this has proven his loyalty. But, Tyrion, do not think you are fit for kinghood just because you put a knife in a man's neck. You have a far road to walk. Don't anticipate a thing."

Tyrion nodded solemly, but Jaime could tell he was swelling with pride underneath his cloak. He doubted his father would simply shower Tyrion with love from then onwards, but it was a large step in the correct direction. Tywin had certainly looked at Tyrion differently, the hard blade of hate behind his eyes significantly dulled. Jaime smirked as he thought it would have been beautiful had it been another family, one without blood permanently covering their hands.

Cersei had sunk back into her chair, sullenness increased tenfold.

"Lord Tyrell and Lady Margaery," continued Tywin, turning his attention to the other family. "I offer my deepest condolences for both Ser Loras and your husband, Lady Margaery. Let there be no doubt in your mind that justice will be exacted to the most complete degree. A Lannister always pays his debts." Mace nodded in thanks, but Margaery remained motionless, her eyes silently leaking.

The Tyrells wouldn't be going anywhere. Jaime knew they wouldn't slow their frenzied sprint to the Iron Throne because of a couple deaths. Only a short matter of time lay between them and their next political move. Jaime thought with a snort that perhaps Lady Margaery would be in the business for older Lannister men now.

"Before we seek our retribution, there must first be a time for reward." Tyrion's head perked up as Tywin gazed over at him, lips slightly curved upwards. "Tyrion, you have proven that you have some value to this family. If you promise to give up your ways of," he wrinkled his regal nose in distate, "whoring and excessive drinking, I offer you this: a Seat on the Small Council, where you may continue to show your worth, and a lordship. When this war has finally receded into dust, you will be Lord of Harrenhal. Our friend Petyr Baelish will no longer be needing it."

One could have heard a spider crawl in the room, the shock was so thick, before Tyrion quickly rose from his chair.

"I cannot make any promises on the drinking," Tyrion joked, before becoming serious at the scathing look from Tywin. "Thank you, father. I will not bring dishonor to this family."

"See to it that you do not," warned his father, and Tyrion reclaimed his seat, a burgeoning smile birthing across his scarred face.

Jaime was truly happy for his brother. All his life, Tyrion had been rebuffed, scorned. The Four-Foot Pariah. It was almost detestable that it took a death for his father to recognize Tyrion as a member of the Lannister family. Nonetheless, he hoped to the Seven that Tyrion would not find a way to ruin his newfound favor.

"It has been brought to my attention that at some point between the Sorrowful Man's attempt on my life and our meeting here, Petyr Baelish managed to make off with 25 of our ships." Tywin looked at them all gravely. "We have no word on how he accomplished this, but it is rather safe to assume he is no longer a friend of the Lannisters. I suspect he had some part in this failed attack on our family. We cannot directly link him to the Sorrowful Man, but I believe that will be revealed in due time."

Baelish. Jaime had never truly liked him. Lowborn with a highborn man's tastes. Shrewd, but utterly conceited. Too self-advancing for Jaime's tastes. There was always something lurking behind Baelish's eyes, and his smiles never met his ears. He had heard tales that the man held an inordinate lust for Catelyn Stark, and it made Jaime wonder if some of it had transferred to her red-haired beauty of a daughter. A growl climbed his throat.

All in all, Jaime was simply glad harm had stayed out of Sansa's way. Three short weeks spend in the armlock of marriage, and he could no longer deny that he had formed an attachment to her. Her red hair and pretty smiles. Her unrepentant sense of optimism, her innocence that had survived so much, the way her Tully sapphire eyes glinted like an afternoon wave in the sun. He wasn't sure if perhaps he had realized the depth of his feelings the first time he had woken up with her in his arms, her back gently inflating against his chest and then falling, the gentle course of a bird's breath, or the moment he had watched the misfired bolt tear Loras Tyrell's life from him. It made him feel so powerless. Had the bolt gone just a few feet more to the left, had the man fallen the wrong way, it would have been Sansa's body on the funeral slab. He shuddered.

He clenched his fists as Tywin drew himself up, the Lord Lion with his Pride, his eyes growing hard and black with determination.

His father's voice was resolute, dared no challenge.

"Lannisters do not take attempts on the throne lightly. There will be no Usurpers left to be crown of a pile of dog dung when the lions have made their move. This debt will not go unpaid."

Sansa Stark

"I now proclaim Tommen of the House Baratheon, First of His Name, King of the Andals and the First Men and Lord of the Seven Kingdoms. Long may he reign!"

Sansa's heart contracted as the crown descended slowly onto the young boy's head like a great anvil, the weight of an entire kingdom trapped beneath the top of the golden-haired boy's head and the equally-golden ornament perched atop it. Little Tommen. Nine years of age and wearing the artifact that countless men had lost their lives over for centuries. Though, she thought darkly, often times a man with many years' head could not support the weight of regency. She prayed to the old gods and the new that the twisted thing on Tommen's head wouldn't hurt him. He was just a sweet little boy, made to be a figurehead, an empty portrait, so that a family had claim to the land that had sat immovable for eons before they had even stepped foot out of the womb.

She watched as scores of people approached the young king to wish him a fruitful and unchallenged reign. He was far too innocent to understand what they meant when they charged him, one by one, with the defeat of the Usurpers, with upkeep of the good name of both House Baratheon and Lannister, with a plentiful harvest and the renewal of the lands. Words that fell deaf on Tommen but heavy on the man that stood behind him, a firm and well-worn hand on the little monarch's shoulder, looking proud and illustrious and capable of anything for his legacy and that of his kin. Sansa knew it was Tywin who held the power, though Cersei vied for it and Tommen bore the title. At his beck troops moved, men died, lives changed without the consent of the alive, houses went up and trees went down, the inexorable march of a man's aim for progress.

Presently, the man before her was excused, and Sansa was before the little king. She looked down at him, taking in his dulcet blue eyes that brimmed with happiness and ignorance and the approval of his family, the horrible thing on his head, the little pout of his lips that betrayed his newfound title. She knelt.

"Congratulations, Your Grace," she said softly, smiling. "You did very well up there. You looked just a fierce and handsome as your father." The identity of which was an obscurity, she thought.

The little boy grinned at his aunt, and she reached a hand out to touch his face, her fingers resting on his small cheek.

"If I may, Your Grace," she said more to Tywin than Tommen, "I would like to ask that you come and spend as much time with me and your uncle Jaime as you like. Never hesitate to come to us."

Tommen nodded, and asked, "Can I bring Ser Pounce, too?"

She laughed at the little boy's mention of his kitten but her insides twisted. 9 years of age.

"Of course," she assured him, standing up and coming level with Tywin's neck. "My Lord," she acknowledged, and he simply regarded her with a curt stare. She curtsied and walked away from the little boy and Tywin, her heart churning. She wandered through the Great Hall and out into the corridors of the Red Keep, trying to rid herself of the thoughts of kings and cruelties. She didn't get far before she felt a hand on the small of her back.

Her husband Jaime's emerald eyes met hers as she sought out the source of the touch, and they walked in silence together before Sansa spoke.

"Why did they have to do it so soon? Tommen is just a little boy. They couldn't have given it even a moon?"

Jaime shook his head, golden locks getting up and dancing across his forehead. "No, Sansa. Then there wouldn't be a king in the Realm. If there weren't, the least worrisome thing we'd have on our hands is discord. I know he's just a boy. My father knows, too. We won't let anything happen to him. I won't let anything happen to him."

The air was pregnant. Sansa stopped, turned to her husband. Everything seemed to become sluggish.

"He-he's your's, isn't he?" She gathered her breath.

Poised, calm, Jaime looked ahead. Sansa could see the answer writhing beneath his eyes, under his skin. His lips parted, but the words didn't matter. She already knew the answer.

"Yes." His voice was a pained whisper. "He's mine. They're all mine. Tommen. Myrcella. Joffrey." There was undisguised loathing in his voice at the mention of his recently deceased son. However, it didn't seem to her that it was all reserved for Joffrey. A sliver of the dagger he turned on himself. He blames himself for Joffrey.

Sansa didn't know how to respond. Her throat was a well in the desert; her mind was a mess. She could barely manufacture breath. Everything teetered on a needle's edge.

Jaime fell to his knees. Her eyes found the shimmering afternoon sun through a window down the hall. She felt so many things all at once; sorrow, disgust, pity, they all rushed her heart quickly and left their marks. She was powerless to the onslaught. Disarmed and electrified. Her knees trembled.

Beside her, Jaime sat on his knees, looking downward, a castle about to collapse in on itself. Birds chirped outside; children's cries of laughter filtered in, too. Life carried its flat-footed grace onward. Sansa clutched at her chest.

"I-I've made so many mistakes, Sansa. I've made so many mistakes."

She could barely hear him. His words echoed in the furthest reaches of her skull, bouncing around and never quieting. They're all mine. Joffrey.

Joffrey.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Her eyes stung like lemons had been opened over them.

"Sansa, I don't…I didn't mean…" he croaked.

But she was already turned from him, fleeing the revelations and the man who gave body to her most horrid tormentor. Mechanically her feet moved; her senses had evaporated.

They're all mine.

She could barely register him calling after her, his voice dying away into nothing like the afternoon sun.


	8. Dragons in the Distance

Chapter 8-Dragons in the Distance

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…this, my Dionysian world of the eternally self-creating, the eternally self-destroying, this mystery world of the twofold voluptuous delight, my "beyond good and evil," without goal, unless the joy of the circle is itself a goal; without will, unless a ring feels good will toward itself— do you want a name for this world? A solution for all of its riddles? A light for you, too, you best-concealed, strongest, most intrepid, most midnightly men?— This world is the will to power—and nothing else! And you yourselves are also this will to power—and nothing else!"

~Friedrich Nietzsche

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Daenerys Targaryen

"Khaleesi, the envoy from King's Landing has arrived. Petyr Baelish, a vassal of the Lannisters and few others. Should I allow them in?"

Daenerys Targaryen, Mother of Dragons, the Unburnt, Breaker of Chains, the Stormborn. She chuckled lightly to herself at the vast number of titles that would be read to the visitors in a moment's time. All deserved, Jorah had assured her. He hadn't needed to. She knew her claim. Westeros rightfully bore the name of Targaryen, and no Usurper House could ever squat on the Dragon's Lands forever. She would take hers and scorch the rest. Lannister, Baratheon, all of them. They would all bend the knee or taste dragonfire.

"Let them in, but don't let them get too comfortable," she called to her most trusted advisor. "Be wary of them, Jorah."

She watched in belied interest as an attractive man of slender build and medium height entered her tent, flanked by two guards bearing not the sigil of Lannister, but of some House she did not recognize. The sigil of the mockingbird. His features were sharp. Knifelike. Grey-green eyes peered keenly at her from behind thick lashes, and a well-groomed swath of black hair adorned his head. Overall, she thought he looked like a bird of prey, hawkish and calculating in the way he scanned her and her Royal Tent.

They didn't look away from one another a single time as Missandei made her formal introduction of Daenerys to the visitors. Violet on emerald and silver. He had yet to speak, but Daenerys already understood his sense of boldness. Baelish asked for permission to speak, and Daenerys granted the request.

"Your Grace," he stated with a certain power that his stature did not convey. "Allow me to make your acquaintance; I am Petyr of House Baelish, a former attendant of the House Lannister."

Brows across the room that knew of Baelish's current history shot up instantaneously. Daenerys was intrigued. She leaned forward, her platinum hair sliding forward across her shoulders and draping across her chest like a curtain of glittering diamond.

"Former, Lord Baelish?" she asked, and he smiled ever so slightly. "As of the most recent occasion I spoke with my advisors, it is to my understanding that you are a very loyal member of the Lannister's allies. Elaborate."

Something peculiar danced across Baelish's eyes.

"Yes, Your Grace," he continued, white teeth on display in a dazzling grin. "I do not blame your advisors for having failed to update you on my current…status; I traveled straight here after the death of Joffrey Baratheon. Rather, after I killed him. Word takes a while to travel these days, does it not?" Another gleaming smile.

Daenerys reeled. The Usurper Baratheon at King's Landing, dead? At this sly Hawk's hand? It seemed almost too good to believe. She narrowed her eyes, pretty face taking on the very essence of hostility.

"Allow me to make myself very clear, Lord Baelish. I will not tolerate bending of the truth in this tent. If you lie to me, or I sense any sort of deceit from you, I will not hesitate to throw you to my dragons." She noticed his face blanch a bit at the mention of her three beasts. "You have just made a very bold claim. Why should I believe you?"

Barristan Selmy spoke up to her right. "He speaks truth, Your Grace. I received word from King's Landing but this morrow concerning the death of Joffrey Baratheon."

She was immediately irked that she had not been informed, but she saved the reprimand. Absorption held her mind fast.

"You killed him yourself, Lord Baelish?" She almost laughed at the ludicrousness of the notion.

His nose twitched. "I arranged for his death, Your Grace, as a token of my good favor. I nearly had Tywin as a second gift, but my plan missed the second ladder's rung." He lifted his hand and gestured behind him. "Instead, I brought with me twenty-five ships from the Lannister fleet, all now under your command, Your Grace."

She was suspicious, impressed, fascinated. She was the viper entranced by the flute. Twenty-five ships would allow her enough travel space to carry her men across the Narrow Sea. Her Dragon Kingdom was looming in the nearest of distances. She could not help the excitement that broiled in her belly.

She opened her mouth to answer the visitor, but Jorah's voice came out instead.

"Khaleesi," he said, approaching her. "Might I have a word in private?"

She trusted Jorah with her life. With more than her life. He had followed her from the moment she had stepped foot on foreign lands as a Dothraki to her newfound position as the Mother of Dragons. There was nothing she did not trust him with. But something about this visitor stilled her. A faint glow within her told her she could not afford to lose his audience, that he would be crucial to her and her future across the sea.

"No, Jorah," she replied a little too sharply. "Whatever it is you wish to say you can say here in front of our guest."

Jorah looked pleadingly at her for a moment, appealing to her sense of affection, but quickly realized she could not be persuaded. Hurt appeared across his face, and Daenerys felt a little pang of remorse. He cleared his throat.

"Khaleesi, we do not know this man. We could be setting ourselves up directly in a trap of his and the Lannister's. It seems a little odd that he sought your acquaintance across the Narrow Sea, and not the Usurper Stannis Baratheon's, does it not?"

Jorah. He always meant well. Only ever had the best of intentions for her. She never doubted he truly loved her. She didn't mistrust for a second that he would die for her without question or uncertainty. Part of her wanted to put all other thoughts aside and embrace him in trust, but a stronger part of her was enraptured by this bird of prey before her.

She didn't answer her advisor. Instead, she looked pointedly at Baelish.

"What is it that you demand?"

He flashed his brilliant smile, unwrinkled skin beckoning to her. The Hawk's face was comely, and she wondered if he had talons to match his well-manicured beak.

"Before we move onto that boring matter, I have a third gift for you." He brought two fingers up to his lips and whistled.

In through the doors and in chains was half-led, half-dragged a sprightly older man of long golden hair that hung around his face like a screen of sunshine. He was tall, lean, of broad shoulders and what seemed a disposition both fierce and humorous. Bruises of all shapes and sizes clung to the skin of his aristocratic face, and lacerations, too. The two guards dumped him to his knees on the floor. The man spat, bared his teeth, and barked, "Thanks for the entrance, boys! When you're tired of riding a lion why don't you try the Dragon!"

He was silenced instantly by a cuff to the back of the head by the nearest solider.

"This, Your Grace, is your third gift," drawled Baelish. "The brother of Tywin Lannister. Most would call him Gerion."

The older man growled. "And most would be too kind in calling you the blood that leaks from between a woman's legs, you pompous-,"

In a flash of black, Baelish let fly a backhand that sent the man sprawling to the ground. "Cover his mouth," he ordered to the guards as Gerion began to laugh from the ground at the blow from Baelish.

Baelish straightened himself, dusting his glove. "We caught him sailing on the Narrow Sea trying to make his way to King's Landing, Your Grace," explained Baelish. "With him he carried Brightroar, the ancestral sword of House Lannister. Apparently, he managed to find it across the Smoking Sea with a crew of peons." Daenerys observed in awe the sword that was brought in and laid upon the ground. It was gorgeous; craftsmanship in its most purest form. The claymore was long and solid gold; it would have taken a brute of man to wield it with two hands. Emeralds and rubies winked at her from prominent places on the hilt. She was so mesmerized by its beauty she barely heard Baelish continue, "I offer Lannister, the sword, and the twenty-five ships, plus fighting men and gold, in exchange for but two things."

With reluctance, she tore her attention from the sword. A bargaining piece. Men. Ships. Daenerys was chary but the offer was too tantalizing to refuse.

"And what would they be, Lord Baelish?" she asked.

His lips curled. The Hawk hovered, ready to strike.

"A seat on your Council of Advisors, and that you heed my first piece of advice should you see fit to grant me the position."

She pondered a moment, but the decision was already made. The chance to claim her birthright, to let her dragons fly the lands of her forefathers. Nothing was too expensive for such an opportunity. She knew she would hear the worst of it from Jorah for days to come, but he eventually would understand. Soon, all of Westeros would understand.

"Granted," she stated with authority, violet eyes piercing into his own. "But you must swear an oath of fealty to me and acknowledge my rightful place as Queen of Westeros." He nodded in assent. "And secondly, what would be your first act of advisement, Lord Baelish?"

Baelish's face became their first act of war.

"That we move on Westeros."

oOoOoOo

Tyrion Lannister

A Seat on the Small Council, and a lordship.

A time for reward.

Tyrion's ears rang with his father's words as he stood in the Great Hall, where he often liked to think. Ironically, the room built for nothing but politics was the place Tyrion most enjoyed thinking of anything but. He found the ambience to be well-suited to his distractions. Torchlight and silence.

Lord of Harrenhal.

Tyrion could still not quite wrap his sharp mind around it. His father had actually willingly given him a place of power, and over a large castle no less. Tywin had never cared for him; that much he made abundantly obvious. But after the Purple Wedding, after he had buried the knife to the hilt in the assailant's neck, Tyrion could see his father's eyes adjusting to the new light of the emboldened Tyrion. The man who had put his life on the line for his family, though some members treated him with an utter lack of respect and decency. The man who had managed to accomplish so much for the Lannister name in the absence of Tywin and in the face of many attempts at sabotage by Cersei.

He very much doubted his father's arms were wide open for him to barrel into, but he certainly could tell they were no longer keeping him at far distance. Wasn't pride. Wasn't love. It was acceptance; Tywin was perhaps finally allowing him to be his son.

"A little late to be admiring the throne, don't you think?"

Startled by the sudden arrival of the voice, Tyrion jerked. He whipped around to find Lord Varys standing there, torch in hand, smooth face as solemn as the grave.

"The Master of Whisperers sure lives up to his sneaky name, doesn't he?" quipped Tyrion, heart still racing from the scare.

Varys didn't laugh. The eunuch walked slowly over to a window and peered out into the ink of night. Tyrion looked too, and thought the stars looked incredibly bright. Old maid's tales would have divulged that inordinately shining stars meant that the gods were discussing the fate of the world that night. Tyrion thought his eyes were just sore.

"The air is growing colder, and little birds chirping to me from across the Narrow Sea tell of restless dragons and an equally restless master. The Dragon Queen has gained a new ally in Petyr Baelish. I fear the worst for the Realm." The eunuch sighed.

A strange move for Baelish. Tyrion would have guessed he'd run to Stannis Baratheon instead of relying on hearsay about dragons and sellswords. Tyrion wondered if he knew his ploy to bring down the Lannister Lion had failed, and that it had been the Imp who had disrupted his efforts. Baelish had always treated him indifferently; he never showed interest in Tyrion's affairs unless they directly infringed on his own. Never friends, recent enemies. Tyrion thought wryly that most relationships in the Seven Kingdoms took that turn at least once in their course.

"You've heard your father's plot to kill Robb Stark, yes?"

Tyrion froze, his mind racing. Plot to kill Robb Stark?

"No," he answered slowly, eyes probing Varys. "I have not. Care to fill me in?"

Varys looked disapprovingly at him. "You have a lot to hear. And learn. Your father plans to use Walder Frey as his marionette and pull the strings while Robb Stark is under his roof at the wedding of Edmure Tully and his daughter."

Gods, he knew his father was cunning, but he didn't know he was downright underhanded. "But the Laws of Hospitality? Surely he doesn't mean to-,"

"Oh, he more than means to violate them, Lord Tyrion," assure Varys grimly. "He plans on taking all of the Northern Lords hostage as well. It's not just Robb Stark he plans to do away with, either. It's his heir, as well. And the King in the North's mother, Catelyn."

His mind whirled. This was undoubtedly the most dishonorable and unscrupulous thing his father had ever conjured up. Tyrion knew he had no choice but to agree with it, lest he incur his father's wrath, but he couldn't help feeling as if it were just too wrong. The universe was cruel at times, but it was also just, and he knew there would be tenfold to pay if they went through with this bloody deed.

"Well, that certainly is dreadful. Sounds just like my father," he finished dryly.

"You cannot let this happen, Tyrion. I have received word very recently that they have postponed the wedding due an illness befallen Edmure Tully. This may just give us enough time to-,"

"Us?" interjected Tyrion, narrowing his brows. "Since when do you care about the Stark boy's head? Why does this matter so much to you? Have you gotten a sense of morality and not told me about it?"

Varys chuckled lightly, but not for long. He quickly turned grave again. "Petyr Baelish escaped King's Landing with twenty-five ships from your father's fleet. Daenerys Targaryen needed enough ships to transport 4,000 men. She now has that space and more. She has dragons, Lord Tyrion, and she wants her father's lost throne. I cannot say what their move will be, but it is evident to me that we are in immense danger."

"And not killing Robb Stark will stop this…how?" drawled Tyrion skeptically. The Spider was a smart man, but oft times his path of thought was one traveled alone.

"The throne needs to side with them, Tyrion."

Had he not seen that the Spider were more serious than a funeral service, Tyrion would have laughed 'til his eyes ran. Unfortunately, he understood quickly that this was no jape.

"You mean for us, the Lannisters, to join forces with them, the Starks," he lifted his hands and waved them theatrically. "I'm sorry, but I do recall that we most brutally took off the head of their family's leader. Not to mention we've married off one their quite attractive women and pawns to Jaime. I'm not sure if you've been drugged, but this doesn't sound like a very good plan to me."

Varys rubbed the bridge of his nose in exasperation. "You're a smart man, Lord Tyrion. Surely you realize that I, an equally smart man, would not suggest something so ludicrous if it were not our only option. We stand no chance alone against the Dragon Queen. She will raze this kingdom to the ground, and all of our heads will adorn the walls of her keep. There is no choice but to align ourselves with the North."

Tyrion's mouth was a desert, his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth like a slug to stone. Varys took Tyrion's silence in stride and continued.

"Tywin is a rational man. He can be convinced. Recruit your brother Jaime to the cause. Two mouths are certainly better than one. After he has been swayed, the only difficult part will be persuading the Starks. Might I suggest disposing of a mutual enemy? Perhaps a Greyjoy?"

Tyrion was utterly perplexed. Daenerys Targaryen was coming for Westeros? What did she want with the Seven Kingdoms? Last information he had been privy to, she was off gallivanting around in the Free Cities, breaking chains and accomplishing all sorts of glorious acts of valor. Most thought she would remain there, ruling from Dragonstone, keeping the Targaryen line intact. But if she was not content with her island kingdom, and she truly was planning to invade Westeros, they were at an extreme disadvantage. They were currently fighting a war against three enemies, and the Dragon Queen would be coming at a perfectly opportune time to seize the throne.

If Varys were correct, and a Lannister-Stark alliance was the most viable option to successfully fending off the Dragon Queen, he needed to act. Quickly. Theon Greyjoy seemed the obvious prospect, but he doubted such an instrumental figure in the struggle with Balon Greyjoy would be so easily tossed away. There was Balon's brother Victarion, of whom Tyrion knew little, and his other brother Aeron, a Fish Priest, who he had last heard was somewhere in the North, sacking villages and taking land for the Ironborn. Also available was Theon's sister, Asha, but he didn't know of her location either. Given the current state of the Ironborn, Tyrion decided Aeron would be their best target. If the Boltons could wrangle the slimy Fish, they'd have a chance at convincing the Starks to cooperate.

He turned to the bald eunuch, finding his voice. "Varys, how do I know you're not in cahoots with the Dragon Woman herself? That you're not trying to weaken us to be ripe for her creatures' jaws?"

Varys smiled flatly. "You forget, I've seen the work of Targaryens firsthand. Aerys was mad; his daughter may not be, but tales tell of an iron will, an unwillingness to give up her claim to the Seven Kingdoms." He leaned in closer to Tyrion, and he could smell the lilac aroma that poured off the man. "She will kill us all. Every single one of us in the Capitol. She has no use for any of us. Apparently, she highly values trustworthiness and honor; I doubt she'll have much use for a Master of Whispers."

He continued, straightening, beginning to pace the room. "This kingdom will not accept her. Can't accept her. The people loved Robert; they would rather die than see another Targaryen on the Iron Throne. Another fire-lover. He immolated his enemies, you know. Among them Brandon and Rickard Stark. I don't think your brother has ever explained the reality behind that story to you. We might all be beneath the earth now, our bones scorched, had it not been for Ser Jaime."

Varys suddenly stopped, turned, and walked over to Tyrion. He laid a soft hand on his shoulder and knelt before him. Tyrion had never seen eyes so troubled.

"Find Jaime," instructed the eunuch. "Tell him what is coming. He will understand; he will help you convince Lord Tywin. Waste no time. I'm afraid we don't have much while the dragons stir."

And it was with that omen that Tyrion found himself striding through the halls of the Red Keep as quickly as his little legs would carry him toward the bedchamber of his brother.


	9. An Unexpected Union

Chapter 9-The Unexpected Union

oOoOoOo

"In the past I have defended the right of the IRA to engage in armed struggle. I did so because there was no alternative for those who would not bend the knee, or turn a blind eye to oppression, or for those who wanted a national republic."

~Gerry Adams

oOoOoOo

Jaime Lannister

"And you're sure this is the only way."

"If I weren't I wouldn't be standing here, Jaime."

"By the gods, the world has turned upside down."

Jaime leaned back in his chair, letting his head fall back like a loosed trapdoor. His brother Tyrion sat his opposite, looking as anxious as the day he had learned Tywin was aware of his commoner bride-to-be. Both struggled to come to terms with the current situation; Tyrion continuously scratched his left knee, a nervous habit, and Jaime wondered how Sansa would react to the news. He had not spoken more than a few words to his pretty little wife since the day of Tommen's coronation, when he had revealed to her the truth about his children's parentage. Avoidance wasn't something she could take full advantage of, so she settled for playing the part of the silent and courteous maiden. Nothing passed forth from her lips that wasn't formal pleasantry. A woman's armor. It killed Jaime; he knew there would be no way around it, that he had to unearth his skeletons or the guilt would ravage him whole, but that didn't help ease the pain of her treatment. Whether he cared for her as deeply as he was beginning to think he did or not, the look of horror that overtook a girl as innocent as Sansa made him feel like a monster.

Maybe I am.

"Father should be here any moment, along with the Small Council," broke Tyrion into his thoughts. "Will you help me or not?"

Jaime highly resented the Starks for his incarceration, and he didn't care for their cause much, either. Anyone that challenged the legacy of his House was an enemy to be torn asunder. However, the possibility that it might lead to reparations between him and his wife was enough to push him strongly in the direction of favor. He leaned forward and clapped his brother's knee.

"You know I can't refuse my dear brother."

Tyrion broke into a wide grin. "I knew you'd see it my way."

Jaime snorted. "If I didn't know you better, I might think you've turned into a wolf pup. Stark sympathy is a good color on you."

"You know I would rather toss myself to the dragons of the Targaryen woman before lifting a finger for the Starks," Tyrion said in exaggerated indignation. "But you know as well as I that this is our best hope. We would be decimated, Jaime. Sansa would be no exception."

The hope of keeping Sansa from harm was the only thing keeping Jaime on board with the plan. That, and his sense of self-preservation. He rather liked his head right where it was. He shivered slightly as the remembrance of the feel of Sansa's lips on his neck ghosted across his skin.

Jaime nodded solemnly as the door to the Small Council's chambers swung open, and Tywin stepped in, followed by Varys, Grand Maester Pycelle, Kevan Lannister, the Master of Laws, and much to his disappointment, Cersei. Tyrion had called for only the most trusted, it seemed. The newcomers took their seats.

Tywin stood at the head of the table. "So, Tyrion, what is the meaning of this sudden meeting? Hopefully not to announce a marriage to another commoner," his father sneered. Jaime winced; the Hand of the King was visibly testy. He hoped the mood would not infringe on their success.

Tyrion cleared his throat and rose slowly, walking out from his chair. "Father, it is not incorrect of me to assume that you very viscerally remember the rule of Aerys II Targaryen? The Mad King, as most remember him by?"

Tywin growled. "Of course I do," he snapped. "The man ordered that I be killed."

"And you remembered his iron will? His paranoia? The way he butchered any and all who stood in the way of his throne and kingdom?"

"What's your point?" hissed Tywin, features contorting into a dark mask. Jaime prayed to every single god he knew that Tyrion knew what he was doing. This was a dangerous path he was taking them down.

Tyrion stopped his pacing, looking his father dead in the green-and-gold Lannister eyes that had seen the destruction of many.

"They say when a Targaryen is born, the gods flip a coin; heads, it is mad. Tails, it is great. Seems like decent odds, does it not? However, in recent history, it seems the gods have been favoring the unlikable option."

"Would you get on with it?" came the snarl from Cersei, who sat at the far end of the table, looking very much like a terrible serpent.

"I am getting there, dear sister," assured Tyrion evenly. "Now, the reason I regale you all with Targaryen history today is this: the daughter of Aerys is very alive and very formidable. She is Daenerys Targaryen, and she has raised a large army. Larger than ours. And of just very late, she has acquired enough ships to take her men across the sea and step foot in our land. Our ships. We have Petyr Baelish to thank for that."

"Impossible!" blurted Pycelle, sputtering. "There is no way he could have gone to her, no proof, no-,"

"I'm afraid it's true," came the soft tones of Varys. Everyone turned their eye to the Spymaster. "My birds across the Narrow Sea chirped to me just the past day. Petyr Baelish has turned coat. He stands for the Dragon Queen, now. Daenerys Targaryen is ready, and she looks poised to invade. She has an army of 120,000 sellswords, Dothraki, and slave-warriors. She wants her birthright, and she means to come and take it. By force, or by the bend of knee."

"She has dragons, Father," continued Tyrion. "Three. One is spoken of being as big as a keep. We know the history of Targaryens; she will come with flames and iron to take her throne. Those with nothing often have nothing to lose."

Tywin lowered himself into his seat ponderously. He sat quiet for a moment, and Jaime tried to guess what was raging in the battle-hardened mind of his father. Lannister victory record or not, the man could not deny they were against overwhelming odds.

"You called us here." His father's voice was low and deep. "You must have something up your sleeve. Tell us, how do we take on the Dragon Woman?"

Jaime tensed. The crux had arrived.

Tyrion took a deep breath and released. "We must side with the Starks."

The room exploded into pandemonium before Jaime could even register the final words of Tyrion's suggestion. His sister was on her feet, cursing loudly, her eyes fierce and wild. Pycelle was outraged; the old man had begun waving his arms about and shouting about "a mockery of this House's good name." Kevan stood against the wall, silent as usual, looking grim and uncertain. Varys was trying to calm them, pleading that they sit and talk. Surprisingly, Jaime noticed his father had not moved; he simply stared at Tyrion with a look of unadulterated bewilderment.

Jaime decided it was time to make his entrance. "Enough!" he bellowed, jumping to his feet. Everyone obeyed hesitantly, their faces betrayed the turmoil of the room. "Tyrion is right; with the Starks at our side, our combined forces might just be enough to turn back the Usurper Queen. We have no other option. It is this, or death. If we must take a vote, I, as Lord of Casterley Rock, say aye."

Before anyone could respond, Tywin raised his hand. He got to his feet and turned to Tyrion.

"I cannot quite believe I am saying this, but allow me to hear the details of your plan, Tyrion."

Tyrion smirked, but quickly resumed a pose of business. He didn't want to call the battle before the swords had swung, but Jaime couldn't help beginning to think they might have a shot.

"I'm glad you asked, Father. If we are to begin to even consider allying with the Starks, we must make them a bargain. None of us like it, and none of us will certainly allow them to fulfill it, but we have to promise them the North." Cersei raised an offended finger, but Tyrion cut her off before she could speak. "It is the only way. We must give them the North in word and worry about the North in deed when we have defended the Realm. We let the Dragon Queen weaken herself by taking on Stannis Baratheon and swing when she is limping. I think, also, we can sweeten the pot by removing a mutual enemy from the field. I suggest Aeron Greyjoy, son of Balon. If we take him down, the Starks just may trust us enough to acquiesce."

Cersei could not wait any longer. "You must be mad if you think any of us will agree to this idiocy. The Lions of Lannister do not make bargains with traitors!"

"We will take a vote." Tywin stared hard at them all, daring a challenge. No one obliged him. "Tyrion, we obviously know your vote. And Jaime's too, it seems. We will start with you, Cersei."

The Queen Regent was the incarnation of indignance. "Absolutely not."

"Two for, one against," tallied Tywin. "Grandmaester Pycelle?"

"This is ridiculous. An outright mockery. As if I need to say it: count another nay," answered the old man. Jaime glared hard at him.

"Two for, two against. Lord Kevan?"

Tywin's brother hesitated a moment, before shaking his head. "I cannot agree."

"Lord Varys?"

"It is the only way," said the Master of Whisperers, echoing Tyrion. Jaime hurrahed internally, but his celebration was short-lived. The tie-breaker fell on Tywin. His stomach turned to ice. The anticipation in the room was smothering.

"It seems I have the final call." Jaime shut his eyes, fearing the answer. Everything teetered on the tip of a sword. "Tyrion, you are a madman." Jaime winced. "But you are no idiot. You have a point. I will agree on one condition; you will take the offer to the Starks yourself."

Jaime let out a massive sigh of relief as the tension escaped his body like the opening of a roaring wood stove's door. Tyrion crossed his arms and smirked, gloating freely in the approval of his father. Cersei was gone; squeaks still emanated from where the door hung ajar after she had melodramatically slammed it. Pycelle muttered indistinguishably under his breath.

"I appreciate your agreement, Father," thanked Tyrion. "I will leave on the morrow."

Tywin scowled. "Don't thank me, Tyrion; if you manage to foul up this plan, you might as well stay with the Starks. I will not be humiliated by the Boy King."

Jaime watched Tyrion swallow the rock in his throat. "I'll see to it that everything goes according to plan. The headhunters will be sent for Greyjoy immediately."

"Good."

Tywin said nothing else, his cloak billowing out behind him like a black vortex as he swiftly took his leave. His brother Kevan followed, silent as always, the silhouette of Tywin given life. Varys strode up to Tyrion and whispered something in his ear; both men smiled, and eunuch patted him on the shoulder. Lastly, Pycelle, still grumbling, shuffled out of the room, his chains clanking sharply to match his bitter drivel.

With the room emptied Jaime turned to his brother, lips parting into a smile reserved for the grandest of victories. They had done it; the war between Lannister and Stark was sent teetering to the precipice of collapse, though a new and somehow even uglier one stood poised to take its place. Fighting was ending for fighting to rise from the ashes, ashes that they could not let the kingdom be reduced to.

Tyrion strode forward and clasped his brother's hand. "If the Dragon Bitch wants her birthright, let her come. The only thing she'll lay claim to is her own grave."

"And we'll dig it for her," Jaime agreed, though hidden behind his grin deep within him his doubt had become unhinged, freed itself, climbing through him and retching into his core. They had to win. He could not face the feel of iron around his wrists and iron in his face again. The mere idea alone made his innards ache with some faraway pain, gripping him like winter over a sleepy village. And the thought of Sansa, stripped from him, locked away…he almost had to shut his eyes.

Tyrion turned but Jaime grabbed his shoulder, holding him fast. He felt his fingers dig into it with a desperation he could not control nor was proud of.

"You can't let them refuse," he whispered. His brother's face slackened, then steeled, and then his eyes fell to closed gates.

When he opened them, Jaime found ferocity there. A promise.

"I won't."

oOoOoOo

Sansa Stark

Day melted into day, passing by unnoticed like everything else in her life. Nothing could catch her attention for but the briefest second; her mind was like a cart with jammed wheels, stuck stationary in one dark corner that allowed no respite. Every so often her stomach would growl or her bladder would yelp to her, reminder her of her humanity, vainly trying to extract her from whatever her brain was keeping her from the rest of her person.

Her mother, had it been a different time and place, might have scolded her for taking it this hard. But she couldn't help it. She sincerely believed he was beginning to change; that he wasn't the irredeemable profligate the commonfolk tried their best to make him believe he was. How could she not? Saving her from Trant had laid an immaculate foundation. She had seen the good man in him, clambering its way out of him clumsily, unsure of itself, and the bad man that had existed only in tales, in words, but was now so overpoweringly real that it threatened to consume her entire image of him. Kingslayer. Kingslayer.

She was married to him, now; there was no way out of it. She would be by his side until, in the most hopeful scenario, he died at battle or in any other case the earth swallowed either of them. Her stomach twisted into a myriad of knots, a tapestry shaken and warped, when she thought of her duties as betrothed. Lying with him paled when she thought of its byproducts; children both Stark and Lannister, wolf-lions, fathered by a man who put bastards to his twin sister, who slew a king in his throne room, who saved his wife from a lust-raging Kingsguard man when the night turned up no one to rescue her…

Pity yanked at her heart when she thought of Tommen and Myrcella. They were good children, sweet, harmless. Nothing befitting the terrible act that had brought them into the world. By the gods, Tommen kept kittens, tens of them; his heart was forged from the purest of gold. Myrcella was keen, picked up her schooling quickly and had a tongue as sharp as Northern winter winds. From far away, it would have been easy to label them abominations. Knowing them, seeing Tommen a scared young boy given a title unfit at times for even the most battle-hardened men, it muddied her idea of them. They were just children, and children don't have to be blamed for the sins of their parents.

A knock thrummed into life at her door, and she barely registered herself calling for the visitor's entry. She continued to stare out the window, mind under relentless assault, as the person took a seat across from her.

"Sansa."

She blanched. That voice she had become accustomed to, had at times longed to hear, had played in her most secret of dreams when the night was deepest. Her teeth unconsciously grit inside her mouth.

"Sansa, please. Look at me."

He was pleading; an act she knew must have been difficult for him. Lannister pride was a pike imbedded in every lion so deeply they'd all take it to their graves. She turned to him, slowly, as if she was about to look on the very face of doom. The sight that she drank in was shocking, almost painful to her; he was gaunt, a shadow of himself. Dark circles had take up station around his beautiful eyes, and his skin held an almost sallow tinge to it, making her wish she could reach out and brush it away to reveal the familiar bronze tan. She chastised herself; sympathy was a gift he didn't deserve.

"Sansa…" he started, swallowing thickly. "I know you are angry with me. Gods know I deserve it. But I have to tell you something. It is big, and you might find yourself liking it."

He smiled weakly, and she sat dumb in response, so he continued.

"The war is over, Sansa. We're parlaying with your brother as soon as possible; an alliance is in the making."

Her heart was mauled immediately as the words sank into her head in the morning light, breaking the chains that had settled themselves there since that day, and she found herself barreling forward and into Jaime's arms against her better whims, against her reason. But she was a slave to her sentiments, and now they bid her to dance, to kiss, to sing a song for every soul in the Capitol.

Jaime laughed, a sound pure and warm in her ears, filling her and needling at the wall she had thrown up to keep him out. His arms traced up and around her waist like two strong waterfalls of muscle and sinew, and she failed to stop the onslaught of tears that sprinted down her cheeks.

The war is over. The war is over. Robb. Mother.

"I knew you'd enjoy the news, but this is definitely a pleasant surprise!" her husband declared jovially, and she buried her face into his chest, wanting with all her might to believe that he wasn't the shade of evil she had forced him to become in her head.

She gazed up at him, her face no doubt blotched and swollen and littered with tears, finding first his full and tantalizing lips, before his eyes, his lion's jewels.

"How?" she choked out, emotion like an axe chopping her words into a nearly unintelligible burble.

At her question his face lost its joy.

"We had to. I wish it weren't born out of necessity, but the Dragon Queen forced it so. Daenerys Targaryen is coming." The full weight of his statement seemed to drop upon him like an anvil, and he squeezed her to him. "Gods, she is coming."

She didn't know what to say. What was there for her to say? She didn't know a thing of battle, or of the current state of the war. But she could see the plain fear etched into Jaime's face, and it scared her infinitely more than anything he was feeling. If the threat could shake him, the Kingslayer, the most feared swordsman in Westeros, then they all had something to be terrified of.

He grabbed her arms fiercely then, face becoming the very fight for all their lives, and she could see the Mad King in every divot and plane of his skin.

"Sansa," he said with a guttural distress that shot arrows into her core. "I need you." He paused, his eyes closing. His hands trembled. "I need you by my side. I know you're upset with me, that you probably hate me. But understand, please understand that I'm not that man anymore. Support is something I'll need. You'll need. Please, forgive me."

She searched his face, looking desperately for that inch of deceit his character begged, that she thought was necessary of him, but found only a man.

Against her better judgment for the second time that day, she kissed him. Slow, soft, her response given tangibility.

She pulled away. His eyes were still closed.

"I forgive you, Jaime."


	10. Rise, Rise

Chapter 10-Rise, Rise

oOoOoOo

"There will be time, there will be time

To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;

There will be time to murder and create,

And time for all the works and days of hands

That lift and drop a question on your plate;

Time for you and time for me,

And time yet for a hundred indecisions,

And for a hundred visions and revisions,

Before the taking of a toast and tea."

~T.S. Eliot

oOoOoOo

Daenerys Targaryen

The winds of the sea were unlike anything she had ever experienced before. Ser Jorah had told her long ago of the lecherous ocean, its vindictive ways against men, the pink ants in their wooden hills that slid across her back. His words could never have prepared her for the real thing. He said the Great Blue would jerk, she would shiver, she would at times raise up on her haunches, throwing ships and water beasts alike about on her skin with tempests that raged for days, waves leagues and leagues high. So far in their journey they hadn't encountered that much from the Blue; Daenerys supposed the gods were smiling on her return to her homeland. The winds were just cold. Cold, but favorable. A lack of doldrums as well, which Jorah had told her had often led to the deaths of men in stillness on the water, away from home and hearth.

Through their trip across the Narrow Sea (and how very narrow it was not), she mostly sat above on deck, quietly observing her men as they tended to her ship, the flagship, recognizable to the entire shiphorde by the large white dragon emblazoned upon the side. Per advice from Petyr, she had assigned Lannister men to each of the ships in the fleet, as she agreed with him that the Free Folk from Essos, slaves, sellswords, men with nothing but their name and their dreams as the sun slept, would be ill-equipped to run ships on their own. She would often talk to them, Lannister and Free Folk alike, thanking them for their service in her name, reminding the Essosi of the foreign land that awaited them. A place of plenty and promise, with four different seasons. The men loved to hear her speak of Westeros, though she herself had never stepped foot on its soil in her life, and Ser Barristan noted that it bolstered their confidence, made them burn with the conviction of the Dragon Queen as if her very fire had been lit in all of their hearts.

Her Council convened often below deck, behind wooden partitions that kept their knowledge from her fighting men. Many times she found herself with the company of a particular counselor alone; Lord Baelish sought her out at every passing opportunity to talk with her of their conquest, of the sea, of her father Aerys and of the Targaryen line. His stories and knowledge quickly became treasures to her. When he spoke, her mind took her far away, across the sea and back again, witnessing the visceral ebb and flow of history with her inner eye. Petry was a talker, and a very good one at that, but he, like all men, only had his fair share of steam. In the infrequent stretches of his silence, she filled his ears with her past, telling him of her time as khaleesi, at the slave-cities. A gleam, a silvery respect she found she came to crave, would overtake his eyes when she regaled him with her life. And so quickly it would fade when she spoke of her Children.

Her Children, her Dragons, flew alongside the ships by day, and by night they rested each aboard three ships that had been set aside for that very purpose. Daenerys watched them fly effortlessly through the winds of the sea, cutting through them with a grace she was sure even the gods were in awe to see. Drogon was the largest, almost as big as the ship he took refuge on, followed in size by Viserion and then Rhaegal. Ser Jorah and Ser Barristan frequently reminded her of their nature. 'Their unwillingness will only grow with their proportions.' Petyr never voiced it, but she knew he mistrusted them too. She found it hard to place these warnings correctly in her mind; she loved them so dearly. Loved them as if they had come from her own womb, placed there by Balerion himself. They were hers. She couldn't fathom them ever outgrowing their Mother.

They wouldn't.

It was a clear morning when Lord Baelish came to her presently, his handsome bird's face full of pride. He took a seat by her side and laid a hand softly on her shoulder, ignoring the looks of warning from Ser Jorah and of disdain from Ser Barristan. It almost made her think twice when the touch elicited a strange sensation in her that quickly flooded her body, warming her and cooling her simultaneously. But, for some reason, she had no second thought; there was only a faint warmth. A smile danced across her face.

"We're a day's sail out, Your Grace," he informed her, voice bright and reassuring like the morning sun. "We will land where the Wall meets the Sea, where ice and water collide." He paused, hawklike eyes roaming her face. When he continued, he seemed satisfied. "It will not be an easy arrival, I'm afraid. It will be cold, fiercely so. Your men will have never had something bite them like the Northern frost. They will adapt, however. The furs and coats in our supply will keep them warm."

She couldn't help it; her gratefulness shone along her features plainly like a radiant portrait painted simplistically. Without his help, she would never have set sail on the Narrow Sea, let alone set foot upon the land of her birthright. Ser Jorah spoke of him as if he were a rat; to her, he was the noblest rat that ever scuttled the earth. She didn't know there could be men like him in Westeros. Some unscrupulous part of her wanted to disbelieve him, to distrust him, but she quashed it. Petyr was a good man. He had to be a good man.

She almost hated the way her voice sounded like a kitten's purr. "And what then, my good Lord Baelish? You'll forgive me if I don't think the cold of the North will stop my descent."

She almost hated more the way his soft laugh made her stomach quiver and her hands clench like two stones trying to relieve some insidious pressure.

"No, Your Grace, I don't think the North will stop you. I don't think the South will stop you. In fact," he leaned in, dazzling teeth on display. "I don't think even the gods themselves could stop you."

The light blush told him she didn't think any endorsement from the gods could quite match his.

"We will meet Stannis Baratheon at the Wall," he stated, mouth upturned in distaste. "He has a quarter of your men; they will be, I'm happy to tell, your easiest match in the Seven Kingdoms. It's fit that the road should have its smallest stumbling block right at the gate."

Ser Jorah stepped forward from off to her side. "He has a good number of men; we should not dismiss him so easily, Khaleesi."

She looked her most trusted advisor up and down once, taking in his pleading hazel eyes, his hulking form. The two aspects of his person clashed in a bizarre manner. Like might and meekness boiled together. Gods, how it was unsettling.

Her advisor's counsel usually made her think, made her dwell. At this moment, she found it rather irksome.

"He will fall, just like the rest," she bit out in a much harsher tone than she had intended. "Whether or not it's an easy fall or one I have to remove his legs to make happen is of none of my concern."

That hurt, that flinching pain that first visited his face the night of Petyr's arrival lightly passed over his face again, and remorse stuck her in the back of the neck like a gang of angry hornets. Of late, his attachment to her had become almost unbearable. He would whisper to her when he thought no one was watching, visit her when the night was quietest. The majority of the time, it flattered her, but she felt now that it was becoming a barrier between them. The exiled Lord of Bear Island's affections never waned, only waxed. At one time, she might have returned his sentiment, might have thought it possible to love him. But then Petyr came, on a fleet of magnificent ships with her salvation and a handsome face. Everything had become a tumult since.

She said nothing, however. Betrayed not an inkling of her regret or her disquiet. She was a Queen; her words were final. Even if they left the pot of honey a little sour.

"She's right, Jorah," broke in Ser Barristan. "He will meet the sword, and the manner in which he does should bother us little. What we should be worried about, Your Grace, is our path. I suggest we march a straight swath into the heart of Westeros. Bypass Winterfell; latest reports suggest it is held by twenty men, led by Theon Greyjoy, son of the Usurper Balon."

Usurper's Dogs. All of them. She grit her teeth and rose like a flame doused in oil from her chair.

"I will take Greyjoy," she hissed. "I will remove his head and fling it all the way to the Iron Islands. They will know the might of the Dragon Queen."

"You will, my Grace," came Petyr's voice, both sharp as a knife and affectionate as a lover. "Believe us; there is no one more fit to sit the Iron Throne than you."

"I will melt it." Her voice shook with the molten depths of her passion. "The Iron Throne will no longer be a symbol of oppression. It will be forged into something new, something respectable."

She witnessed the shock that appeared in the faces of Sers Barristan and Jorah, and the pure delight that lit Petyr's. She beamed at him; his approval fueled her more than he could understand. He was the Bird of Prey that she would ride to soaring heights. Her bird, she thought with joyous delirium.

"I-I want to speak to Petyr. Alone," she breathed. Her usage of his first name, her throaty beckon, the room thickly rode them into silence. Her Queenhood had departed her. She didn't care; Petyr looked so alive.

Ser Jorah transformed into a thing of fear, of uncertainty. He took a step toward her. "Your Grace, I think-,"

"Now."

She didn't glance away from Petyr's brilliant face. Violet eyes sparked on grey. The noises of the room clearing quickly dissipated; she stepped forward.

Her mind was vacant. Nothing moved; the sounds of their breathing were a symphony reverberating in her ears. She grabbed his face with both of her slender hands, the magnitude of every action, every consequence, gone, disappeared. Her lips crashed down onto his.

She almost moaned in sheer delight as her Bird of Prey kissed her back, hands coming to wrap around her back and caress the skin exposed by her silver dress. Their lips clashed, tore at one another, as if they were fighting her war right there in their heady embrace. Ecstasy claimed her; his lips, the tickle of his beard against her unblemished Targaryen skin, the feel of his hands as they danced across her neck, her shoulders. All of it made her mission fall away from her mind as if it were dust in the breeze. She gasped into his mouth as he nibbled her lower lip, her hand flying to the nape of his neck, trying to bring him closer, wanting nothing but his touch, his admiration, his affection.

She opened her mouth for his marauding tongue, letting him fully taste her, explore her. Petyr's hands cupped her backside, pulling her to him with a strength she found exhilarating. A hand of her own came up between them, reaching for the clasp of his cloak, the bliss making her fingers tremble, and she yelped softly as their mouths broke contact.

"Your Grace…" he whispered, leaning his forehead against hers. She noticed for the first time how much older he was than her. His age screamed fatherhood, middle of the road. She was suddenly struck with the realization that she relished it unbelievably.

"Please, Petyr, I believe you can call me Daenerys now," she ventured with a voice so burdened with passion it almost suffocated them both.

His hand came up to grasp the one of hers trying to undo the clasp at his neck.

"Daenerys," he repeated, tasting her name on his tongue, reveling in it. A wetness pooled between her legs at the way it rolled off his lips."Gods, Daenerys. We mustn't. Despite how badly I want this. The time is not right, my beautiful Dragon Queen."

His words thrust her jarringly to the present. She kissed Petyr. Petyr. Her bird. Just how had she come to desire him so badly in the short weeks he had been in her service? Maybe it was because she needed something. Needed comfort. The image of Jorah burned like a flaming arrow in her mind for a second, then departed. She looked at Petyr, drinking him in, eyes tracing every angle of his regal face. Reason couldn't help her. She was at the whim of this need for him, this yearning. His brilliance, his esteem. It was a poison she wanted to die from for the rest of her days.

"I won't wait much longer, Petyr. You are mine, remember?"

He shivered slightly in her embrace, eyes igniting.

"How could I ever forget?"

He kissed her once more, softly, a promise, before pulling away. He straightened himself, readjusted his cloak. When he finished, he brought two fingers up to take her chin.

"Soon, my beautiful Dragonness. Soon."

And then he turned and walked out of her cabin, leaving her breathless.

He was agony. Never had a man, never had anyone brought such feelings out of her, let alone these that threatened to consume her. A hand absentmindedly found her lips, tracing them lightly, pondering the feel of lips that urgently pressed against hers just moments before. It wasn't love, wasn't demure. It was far more primal. Wanton.

Gods, how I know I adore it.

A knock at the door flung her from her enraptured mind.

"Come in," she allowed, vexed. The last thing she wanted now anyone that wasn't her most recent Small Council appointee. Her violet eyes narrowed as the Brigmaster, a large and sweaty boor, pushed the door open and strode in.

He bowed low. "Your, Grace."

"Is there something I can do for you, Lemont?" He was a former Lannister man. She didn't trust her new, rather rough-mannered folk to care for prisoners well, though she had only one. Captives were an unfortunate necessity. She really misliked chains.

"Your Grace, I beg pardon, but your prisoner, Gerion Lannister, wishes to speak with you."

She raised her brows. What business had he with her? She knew nothing of this lackluster lion, other than his background and last known activities. Jorah told her that he was the youngest brother of Lord Tywin Lannister, the richest man in the Seven Kingdom's and the father of the man who slew her father. Her advisor described him as reckless, a joker, a man with little to fear and a lot to gain. Cunning, just like his eldest brother, and not half as bloodthirsty.

If anything, it would be a nice change of pace. "Send him in," she dictated, and the man scurried off in response. Within minutes he returned, leading the long-haired Lannister into her chambers.

She sat in silence, awaiting his courtesies. A moment passed. Nothing came. She quickly realized he would not bow. Defiant and most definitely reckless.

The Brigmaster sent him careening to his knees with a well-placed kick to his back. "You will bow before the Queen!" he cried indignantly, and Gerion looked back at him and spat at his feet. Infuriated, Lemont raised a hand to strike him.

"You wretched son of a-!"

"No!" interjected Daenerys, all but leaping from her chair. "Leave him be. I will not have my prisoners treated like they are in the Seven Kingdoms. Like dogs."

Lemont's hand stilled mid-swing, his face ballooning in utter bewilderment. The dumb look remained on his face another moment, before he quickly straightened himself.

"My apologies, Your Grace. I meant no offense."

"I take none, Lemont. If you will, I ask you please leave me and Ser Lannister here." Lemont opened his mouth in protest, but she quickly cut him off. They always had the best intentions. "I will be quite safe, Lemont. If I am harmed, the least of his worries will be my Dragons. You may wait outside the door."

Lemont looked from her, down to Gerion, and back again, before nodding. He bared his teeth at the Lannister, who showed his right back and then crossed his eyes and thrust out his tongue. Daenerys had to bite her tongue to suppress the giggle that climbed her throat. His theatrics had already made this unexpected little visit worthwhile.

When Lemont had shut the door, she sat back down and gazed at him.

"You wished to see me?" she questioned blandly.

He scoffed. "I expected counsel with the Dragon Queen to be a bit more…scaly. Though, a dragon would be a welcome sight over the blank walls of the brig. Probably would smell better, too."

"I would guard your tongue, Ser Gerion, lest you end up seeing the mouths of my Dragons before their scales."

"I expect their jaws might be more comfortable than my current board."

She shut her eyes in frustration. Insolence was not something she looked fondly upon, and he was already presenting her with armfuls of it. She rubbed the bridge of her nose.

"Tell me what you wanted, or I will have your tongue," she ground out.

His sharp features filled with mirth. "There's no rush, Dragon Queen. We have all the time in the world out here at sea. And water. Alas, I feel compelled to get to business, for the sake of my youth." She fought down another giggle, forcing her face to stay impassive. It couldn't be avoided; she could see clearly he was a born entertainer. He went on. "What have you done with Brightroar?"

She frowned. "What I do with the property of prisoners is my business alone. You will not be privy to-,"

"Please. I will not simper before you. I only wish to know that it is still in one piece."

She looked him hardly in the face, analyzing the crags of his visage, the green eyes that screamed 'Lannister', as ifhe were flying the sigil from the whites of them.

"I spent my life scouring the earth for that bloody thing," he continued. She noted it was the first time his voice had held a tone that wasn't mocking. The passion almost rattled her. "It means more than the largest castle and the biggest tits to this old man."

She blushed furiously at his crass words. "Ser Gerion, you will not speak in such a way before a Queen. Have you no civility?"

"And pray tell, Dragon Queen, what have you? A couple ships and a flock of savages? A wayward knight who yanks himself at night to your image and a rat from the sewers of the Red Keep?"

"You bastard!" she shrieked, her chair forgotten and bare behind her. The curse rolled odd off her tongue, the choice word decidedly unbecoming of a Queen. She raised a lone lean finger at him. "How dare you speak in such a way to the rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms!"

"You're not my Queen," he dared. His throat was an iron pipe, and his vociferation was like a toxic dart that almost made her flinch. His chains began to tremble audibly as his hands did, the metal moving in accordance with his fervor. No longer was he on his knees; drawn up before her, he looked like a wraith of righteousness, a blaze. "You're nothing. You're no one's Queen but the fools that will die along with you when my brother takes your head."

Daenerys shook with all the fire that raged in her Dragon's bellies.

"You will die for your words, Lannister. Perhaps not today, or even in the next moon. But when I've crushed your brother, when I've burnt your spectacular House to the ground, I will feed you to the biggest of my Children. And I will laugh as Drogon rips you in two."

"And I will shit in his mouth."

"LEMONT!" she bellowed, turning from the bastard before her. She would suffer no more of his gall. The door flung open and the Brigmaster hurried in, out of breath. He bowed.

"Your G-,"

"Get him out of here," she ordered, seething.

Lemont nodded at once, grabbing a hold of Gerion brusquely and yanking him to his feet. He began to pull the man out, away from his obviously distressed Queen, when Gerion fought him for a moment. The Lannister threw his head over his shoulder in her direction.

"Listen to me, Beggar Queen! Listen well, for I'll only say it once!" Lemont growled, tugging at his chains with renewed strength at his display of impudence. Gerion looked like a madman, spittle flying from his widely stretched mouth.

"There are no more Targaryens. You, bitch, are no Targaryen! Your children, if any wretch is ever born to you, will be no Targaryen! THE LAST OF THE TARGARYENS DIED WITH MY NEPHEW'S SWORD IN HIS BACK!"

She gasped, and he guffawed, the noise echoing through the small cabin for a long while even after he had been forcibly removed.

And then she wept.

oOoOoOo

Tyrion Lannister

Tyrion woke with a groan. Sunlight danced on his eyelids. Eyes still shut, he rolled over languidly and then sat up, reaching for the water jug he placed beside his bed every night. He instantly recoiled when his little hand rebounded off something hard and knobby. His eyes flew open.

It was Bronn's knee. He looked up in bewilderment at the man, who he found asleep in the chair next to his cot. Then he realized they were moving. The caravans had started up again sometime in the night. Not on his orders.

"Bronn!" he hissed, grabbing the man's knee and shaking it. "Bronn! Wake up!"

"Those tits are worth far less than three gold dragons."

Tyrion screwed up his face at the captain of his guard. The dolt was deeply asleep! At least, Tyrion hoped so. His tits were definitely worth more that three gold dragons.

"Bronn!" he repeated loudly, slapping the man's knee. The former sellsword jerked awake, head on a swivel, his hand flying to the pommel of his sword. "I swear Ser Bronn, your recent knighthood has made you deaf to anything that isn't someone verbally sucking your cock."

"Well, good morning to you too, Lord Tyrion."

Tyrion rolled his eyes, and then quickly sat up. "Why are we moving? Who ordered this? And also, why are you taking a rather… unsettling nap beside me in my private sleeping carriage?!"

Bronn held up a hand to the barrage of questions. "Gods, slow down, little man! Last time I heard you talk that fast you were facing a sure death in the Eyrie!"

"Why-are-we-mooooovingggg?" he enunciated slowly and mockingly, crossing his eyes as he did so.

"Gods, as if I thought you couldn't get any uglier."

"Oh, do shut up. And answer my question."

"I ordered it, of course!" Bronn responded cheerfully, as if speaking of the weather.

Tyrion's hands flew up. "You WHAT?!"

Bronn laughed smoothly. "You forget, Lord Imp, that I know my way around the country. We were a night's ride from Riverrun. In fact," he paused looking at the closed flap of the carriage. "We should just be getting there now!"

"Getting…to…" Tyrion repeated slowly, his sharp mind working the night's dust off. "By the gods, the time has come! Seven hells!"

Forgetting all about his captain's semi-mutinous actions, he leapt from the bed, grabbing a cloak from a hang-spot nearby and draping it over himself. He grabbed the water jug, took a deep swig, and then poured the liquid over his hand before running it through his hair, flattening it. Bronn stared at him in bafflement. Tyrion huffed.

"What? Never seen a man make himself presentable? Though, I suppose you've never so much as washed your arse a day in your life."

Bronn rolled his eyes then, and Tyrion looped a belt around his waist. He grabbed a dagger off his bedside table, gazed at it a moment, before affixing it to the belt. He would need to appear strong, if at all possible for him. The dagger wouldn't do it all on its own, but it would certainly lend a hand. Starks loved their blades.

Tyrion jerked forward as the carriage suddenly rolled to a halt. He looked over himself, ensuring everything was proper, before he turned to Bronn.

"I need you to be prepared today," he said, voice grave. "If any of this goes sour, we will need to leave quickly. Everything must be ready for an immediate and abrupt departure, if necessary."

Bronn nodded solemnly, and then clasped his short friend on the shoulder.

"Good luck."

"I wish I needed it."

They both grinned, and then jumped as the flap to the carriage was thrown open without pretense. A nervous-looking man stuck his head in.

"Lord Tyrion! A raven came! Daenerys Targaryen is at the Wall, engaged with Stannis Baratheon!"

The news hit him like a cold bucket of water to the face. Time was running out. He squeezed shut his eyes as the ponderousness of the situation was understood by him truly for the first time.

If I fail, we all die. Funny how I always find myself in this position.

With a last nod to Bronn, he moved toward the messenger, who retreated as the dwarf jumped down from the back of his ride.

The sight that met his slightly watering eyes was breathtaking.

The Stark encampment was massive. It stretched on for what seemed miles around the castle of Riverrun, encircling it like a coat of many colors. Direwolves seemed to growl at him from every high-flung Stark banner that twitched in the morning breeze, and he let his vision roam over the entirety of it all in admiration of its sheer size. He saw other sigils too, those of Umber and Karstark and the like. But his eyes would never forget the salience of the direwolf in that early sun.

A commotion some yards from him drew his attention. A Tully host had come to meet the caravan, armed and in full battle dress. Tyrion grit his teeth. Though they had come waving a banner of peace, he knew the Starks would take no chances.

Tully and Lannister began to exchange words, and Tyrion decided to make his presence known before anything turned irreparably ugly.

"Good morrow!" he shouted pleasantly, making his way over to the host. "I trust you already know who I am; it is hard to mistake me. But may I ask who I have the honor to receive?"

A great brute of a man swung down from his steed. Tyrion instantly recognized him as the Blackfish. Catelyn Tully's uncle, Brynden.

"I would have the honor of taking your head, monstrous little beast," the man roared, taking a step toward him.

Tyrion clicked his tongue. "Tisk, tisk, Ser Brynden. I come with no ill-will."

"Then you'd better inform me as to why you show your hideous face here, before I send you back to where you belong: the Seven Hells."

Tyrion chuckled good-naturedly. "You wound me, Blackfish. As a man most unhandsome yourself, you know we lot should stick together!"

The Blackfish growled at Tyrion's attempt at jocundity. "Speak, Imp! Don't make me do anything you wouldn't enjoy."

"Business first, as always. Never change, you Tullys."

Brynden bared his teeth in warning. Tyrion put up his hands.

"Alright, alright! I have traveled very far from the Capitol, forgive me for the well-needed jest. However, what I say next is far from humorous; I wish to parlay with the Starks."

Everything when quiet. And then the Tully host roared with merriment, led by the Blackfish's harsh bark of a laugh.

"Parlay? With the Starks? I thought you said you were done with humor!"

Tyrion tightened his lips in impatience. "I do not jape, Ser Brynden. I come with an offer."

That seemed to have successfully gotten the large man's attention.

"An offer?" he repeated with bemusement. "You come with an offer? To the party which you beheaded the Lord of?"

"I did not behead him," bit out Tyrion. "I would never even dream of it. You have Joffrey Baratheon to thank for that. Or rather, his corpse."

Brynden Tully took another momentous step toward him. His voice was low, reckoning. "You'd better turn back around and leave. Now. Before I cut your throat. And I don't want to do that; I'd hurt my back stooping that low."

Tyrion's hand moved unconsciously to the dagger at his side. The air bloated with malevolence. No one moved.

Then a third voice rang out from behind the Blackfish.

"What is the meaning of this?"

Edmure Tully. He rode out on his mount to the spot just beside Brynden. Tyrion noticed he looked pale, drawn in. His sickness was existent, it seemed.

"Lord Edmure, how wonderful of you to join us," cried Tyrion. Edmure looked down at him, face quickly filling with unabated disgust at recognition of the Imp.

"You," he uttered quietly.

"Yes, me. You Tullys aren't ones for words, are you?"

With a bit of undisguised effort, Edmure climbed down from his horse.

"Why do you come here, Imp?" he questioned weakly. He then broke into a fit of coughs, hand clutching at his throat.

"Unwell, are we, Lord Edmure?"

Edmure Tully ignored the venture, repeated his inquiry. "Why are you here?"

Tyrion knew the moment had arrived. He drew a deep breath and exhaled, choosing his words carefully.

"Lord Tully, I don't come to insult or distract. In fact, I wouldn't be here at all if it weren't for the gravest of matters."

Tully just stared at him. Tyrion took it as an urge to continue.

"Thankfully, someone who listens." Brynden snapped his teeth. Tyrion paid him no heed. "There is a war coming. Much worse than the one we fight over an iron chair. It comes in the form of Daenerys Targaryen, the last of her name. She is at the Wall as we speak, subduing Stannis Baratheon with one-hundred and twenty-thousand men. In no time, she will be marching through our lands, a foreign woman with the foolish notion of a claim to the throne. She has dragons. Three of them. I come on behalf of reason. On behalf of necessity. I come," he paused, letting the air grow tense and fraught with anticipation. "To propose peace."

For awhile, nothing so much as breathed. And then the Blackfish roared with laughter, the host joined him, and Edmure fell into another hacking fit. Tyrion blanched; would they really toss him aside so easily? Did they not have spies, reporters?

Edmure silenced them all with a raised hand when he recovered. He gazed at Tyrion, Tully blue eyes both fearful and uncertain.

"You speak truth, Imp?"

Tyrion nodded solemnly. "I'm afraid so."

Edmure swore, turning his back to Tyrion and beginning to pace. He did so for several drawn-out moments, before he whirled around with a surprising agility.

"On the pain of death, Imp, do you swear to not so much as lift a finger in any sort of aggressive manner in my home?"

"I do," replied Tyrion, trying to put as much sincerity into his voice as possible.

"Then it seems we will parlay."


End file.
